Modus Vivendi
by We Stole Vodka From The Optic
Summary: Once, there had been a young man who had been so afraid of death that he'd go to the greatest lengths to destroy it. Then, there had been a man who'd aged way before his time, and wandered Albion, heartbroken. And then, there had been a Pirate King.
1. Gold

Modus Vivendi

Part I: Gold

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

There had once been a time where everything in the world had come to an end for him. His dancing was not as vigorous, his eyesight just a little blurry, his skin the tiniest bit wrinkled. Indeed, for Reaver, as his true name, his _real _name has been buried in Oakvale along with countless others, his everything was beginning to come to a standstill.

He was beginning to die. True, it wasn't just him, _everyone _was beginning to die. Every passing second was a second they would never get again. Those seconds dragged on to minutes, which dragged on to hours, which continued seamlessly in days. It was all time they would never get back. As the man, still as handsome, as fiery as he was in his younger days, approached his thirtieth year, there was that nagging thought. It was like… a weed that had grown in the back of his mind. And, despite attempts to root it out, it stayed there, stubbornly, overtaking his mind until the mere thought of _time, _of _youth, _became a wild obsession.

Reaver was dying. It was a feeling, a thought that he would never get used to. Such imaginings, such _fears _of death… they had taken hold of the man with such a vice-like grip. His fearful thoughts had seized him, pillaged his mind. They haunted his every sleeping moment, gripped his waking hours.

Until he convinced himself that there had to be a way out of death, a loophole that he could exploit.

Anything, anything at all…

Reaver stood in the middle of a field, working tirelessly under the sun. The lean muscles underneath his shirt rippled slightly, and Reaver grew annoyed with the gaggle of giggling girls that were sitting underneath an oak tree, watching him with unwavering interest. If he'd been the same man as the one nearly three-hundred and fifty years into the future, he would've indulged those village girls, played with their hearts and toyed with their affections, knowing full well that he felt nothing for them and only saw them as something that could be used.

However, this was a man who had not been changed by death, debauchery and dealings with the Shadow Court. This was a man who feared death, and sought to do something about it, unknowing of the consequences his actions would cause.

He stood up, and wiped his forehead slightly with his sleeve, his brown eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the sun's rays. Around him, the barley moved slightly with every whisking breeze, and the girls underneath the tree giggled some more, their laughter piercing the air.

Oakvale was vibrant, full of life, vivacious, whatever you would call it. The people in it no longer remembered the Hero, Chicken Chaser, or Twinblade, or Scarlet Robe. Any scars it bore from the attack by Jack of Blades had faded long ago, with the death of Albion's savior, Chicken Chaser. All that remained were unlikely tales in history books, and a faded statue of a Heroine in the graveyard, who had wielded an axe and slain Balverine upon Balverine.

There was no forewarning, no thought that the little town of Oakvale would soon come to a dastardly, horrid fate.

"Hey!"

Reaver stood up, fully this time, and turned his head, the widest of smiles spread across his face. Along the path, a basket held in the crook of her arm, was a woman whose visage was of the angels. Her eyes were as bright as gleaming stars in the night, and her hair as golden as the field in which Reaver stood in. Her nose was dotted with tawny freckles, her smile dimpled and patient. And when she walked, she glided, and her voice was like that of a flowing stream, slapping across the rocks.

Oh, how the man had longed to see this angel again. This seraph known only as Sibyl.

Time had eroded what little else they said, but he could remember plainly sitting down beside her, eating sandwiches and speaking of the future. Those who looked upon the couple did so with envy, for there were no two people in Oakvale who had been happier or more content than them.

And yet, thoughts of death haunted the man whose real name was six feet under the ground. And a woman who watched from the shadows, a woman with a pale, vapid face and blind, unseeing eyes saw right through the man's feigned contentment.

In her hands, she clutched a worn book of Old Kingdom make, and the future waded in front of her.

Theresa cared not for this man's happiness with his love, nor of the destruction that would bereave her former home. The bloodline was flourishing elsewhere, and Oakvale was naught but a small loss compared to what could happen if Reaver died in this timeline. The Hero of Skill had to be born, and it didn't matter if he grew into a hedonistic life, filled with depression and a desire to fill Sibyl's place with whores and bordellos.

Reaver looked over his shoulder, the feeling that he was being watched too great for him to ignore. Sibyl continued to chat on about making improvements to their home.

There was no one there.

Sibyl, noticing her love's discomfort, placed a thin, pale hand on his cheek. She rubbed the beauty mark on his cheekbone with her thumb.

"Is everything alright?" She looked over to where Reaver had glanced.

"Yeah," He answered. "Just thought I was being watched."

Sibyl, cocking an eyebrow, leaned forward and kissed him.

* * *

**This is part of a short story idea, surrounding the origins of Reaver and "her", who I've dubbed Sibyl. (Anyone who's read Avarice might remember mention of her! :-D) I've always liked the idea of Reaver having loved a single person, and turning into the deviant we all know and love after her death. I'm going to delve into some psychological aspects in this story. This story will span from before the destruction of Oakvale to Reaver's rise as the Pirate King, in short, brief segments. **

**Feedback is appreciated!~**


	2. Discord

Modus Vivendi

Part II: Discord

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

Oakvale was no stranger to traveling merchants, or peddlers. But the woman who'd wandered into their peaceful little town was a strange, odd person. She drew curious glances, as well as looks of suspicion, for no villager in Oakvale had ever seen someone as… _bizarre _as the blind fortuneteller that had found her way into the village square.

Theresa had seen Oakvale before, of course. But no one in the village could possibly remember the auburn-haired girl, with her locks tied up into pigtails, her blue eyes glittering as she ran underfoot with her little could they remember the night Oakvale was razed to the ground, or the man in the mask who'd brought Theresa's world crashing down.

The past at the moment, mattered not. The future, the silver linings that ran ahead of Theresa like ephemeral stags, always fleeting and not quite within her grasp. But the Seeress knew, had known, that there was one thing for certain: Reaver was needed.

She stood in the village square, offering glimpses into one's fortune for a few pieces of gold. Gold was something Theresa had no need for, and it was not for these villagers' bent coppers that she sat behind a wood stand, shuffling from foot-to-foot, her head always bent down.

What person, so afraid of death, so afraid of the future, would resist a chance to see their future?

"—And we still haven't thought of wedding plans, have we?" Sibyl and Reaver sat bowlegged on the benches beside the tavern. Her head was gently pressed against his chest, and he encaged her body with his arm, swinging it across her gently rounded shoulders. Although he was paying his love full attention, his eyes, every now and then, were swayed to the unsmiling fortune teller in the village square.

"I'll do whatever you want, Sib." He replied, running a hand through her golden tresses. "I'm happy if you're happy."

"And I'm happy if you're happy." Sibyl giggled into his chest, sneaking a small kiss on his chin. Reaver glanced again at the fortune teller, who was watching, well not really watching as Theresa was blind, the empty space in front of her. A villager, Reaver recognized the man as Erik, the owner of the tavern they were sitting in front of, walked up, tossing a few gold pieces onto the stall.

"Ari's going to be my maid of honor," The seraph breathed contently, and he continued to run a hand through her hair, feeling slight discomfort as the blind Seeress shuffled the cards in front of her with a deftness that shouldn't have been possible for a blind woman. "She likes you a lot."

"_That," _Reaver bemoaned into her hair, forcing himself to look away. Sibyl looked up at him, her bright eyes gleaming. "Is a miracle of miracles then, for Ariadne to like anything _except _her books."

Sibyl punched him lightly on the arm, laughing then, a true, hearty laugh bellowed in the core of Reaver's ears. Reaver looked over at the bizarre fortune teller once again, and saw Erik walking away, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, shaking his head. The barkeep looked chilled to the bone, his skin sickly pale.

Theresa's head craned towards him, suddenly, slowly. This was a woman who would fall out of his memories with the passage of time, her face and sightless eyes eroded from his mind, and if he had known just what sort of impact would come from her sudden arrival in this sleepy hamlet, he would not have taken her hand and been led to the Spire with Sparrow, Garth and Hammer.

There was a thin piece of cloth tied around her eyes, and her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. For a second, Reaver felt something darkly familiar tingle down his spine, as if a ghost had trailed a cold, icy finger down his back. It was as if she were staring right through him, and could see his soul laid out bare, in front of her, as if he could see all his hopes, loves, and worst of all… his fears.

Reaver broke the chilling contact, turning his head when Sybil looked over to see what he was staring at.

"What are you looking at…?" She asked. For a second, a split-second, she did not seem as beautiful as she should have been. Her radiance had disintegrated, and the smell of burnt flesh, like wormwood, invaded Reaver's senses. Around him, there were sparks of fires, flames. And the screams of his friends rose higher and higher into the air, bleeding into his ears with a rising crescendo…

"Are you okay, love?" Sybil, pressed a hand to his cheek, and with a gasp, Reaver was thrown back into the present. "You look a little pale."

"Yes, thought I saw a trick of the light… It's nothing." He kissed her forehead, pressing his lips between her arched brows. She smiled, and looked over at the blind Seeress, who was shuffling from foot-to-foot.

"That woman is a fortune teller, isn't she?" He tipped his head, over at Theresa, all thoughts of the strange experience evaporating as quickly as they had occurred. It was best not to question them. He had just gotten over a nasty bout of the flu.

"Oh, we should get our fortune told!" Sybil exclaimed, jumping up from her spot on the bench. That beautiful golden hair, tied back into a long braid, whipped gently at the air behind her. "I mean, no one believes in magic anymore… so it's just for fun."

"You don't believe in magic?" He asked, his eyebrows flying under his fringe.

"It is a ridiculous load. Flying swords, the thrall of time… that's something Ariadne believes in. It's really just stupid. Do _you _believe in magic?"

He grinned, a lopsided, endearing grin, one that would disappear in naught but a few months, "I met you. I have to believe in magic."

Sybil pulled at his hands, wrenching them from his lap. He pulled himself up, and for a second, the two crashed into each other. Sybil was a whole head shorter than he was, but Reaver had always been the tallest man in Oakvale. He was a whole head above most people.

"_C'mon," _Sybil implored, pulling him along. She was impressively strong for a rather delicate-looking woman, and more assertive than any seraph, mortal or otherwise, should have been. Reaver rolled his eyes, annoyed slightly by her tugging. "It's fun!"

As they approached, Reaver felt something boil inside of him. It swirled underneath his skin, a slight itching in the warmth of his blood. There was something about the fortune teller that raised something in him.

"Three gold pieces…" Theresa started, her head bent low. The hood that covered her face obscured all but her pointed chin from view. "For a reading…"

Sybil reached into the folds of her clothes, pulling out a leather pouch, and took out three gold coins, placing them on the counter. Theresa reached for them, placing them into a pocket that was knitted by her waist, and took the cards. She shuffled them, her fingers dancing across the edges as if she could tell just exactly what she was doing.

Her adeptness frightened Reaver slightly, as did the foreboding in the pit of his stomach.

Theresa stopped, placing the deck in front of her, caressing the top of it before turning up her to look at the couple.

"To continue, you must ask a question… and I will pull out a single card. Be aware that some things are better left unknown…" She trailed off, leaving them there with an ominous note.

"Well," Sybil breathed, as if thinking this to be a cheap trick to make them go away. "We're getting married soon, and I want to see how our marriage will end up…?"

Theresa bowed her, and lifted the card off the top of deck, placing it towards them. The card was deceptively pretty, with gilded edges and a single numeral at the bottom, surrounded by swirls of gold: XIII

The front of it was emblazoned with a pale skull. The sockets were dark, darker than a moonless night. A pale white rose was stationed on a spectral flag, a looming symbol of dread and innocence all bound up in one card.

"Death… I see death in your future." Theresa stated, blankly, as if she'd been reciting a grocery list back to them.

Sybil laughed, and turned to Reaver, "See? I _told _you it wasn't real. Honestly, of all the silly things, _Death."_

Reaver wasn't quite as optimistic.

"Whatever you choose to do with this knowledge is up to you, Sybil," Theresa sounded visibly annoyed with the girl. "Just be prepared to bear the consequences should you choose not to act."

"Right, right. Go on, with your scam then." Sybil shook her head, snorting, pulling Reaver away from the seer. Reaver looked over his shoulder, his face as pale as the man, Erik's had been.

Death? There was death in his future?

And so the seedlings of doubt, insecurity and fear began to grow.

* * *

**Modus Vivendi will be split into three short arcs. The first will be the Oakvale chapters, and then the 'Reaver's slow descent in hedonism and sociopathy arc' (Witty title, I know.) and the last will be the 'Pirate King' Arc.**

**Feedback is appreciated~!**


	3. Ouroboros

Modus Vivendi

Part III: Ouroboros

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

People clacked glasses together, their frothy insides spilling both onto the counters of the tavern and into the mouths of Oakvale's people. It was something that had gone on for generations. Men and women drank after their work, often until they ended up in gutters somewhere. Erik, the barkeeper, stood solemnly behind the counter, cleaning glasses with a dirty rag, a dark expression hovering over his features.

Reaver sat with his friend, Oakvale's resident lothario, Brenton. Brenton was a man of small stature, short with rounded shoulders. He had catty eyes, which glimmered bluely beneath the shadows of his heavy brow. His hair was gold, a similar color to Sybil's but subtly darker. The man's resemblance to a cat was striking, and his sly, mean personality only further accentuated the fact. And yet, somehow, he was charming enough to be attractive to the ladies of Oakvale.

"You've sure been down, lately," Brenton told him, drinking his ale heavily. In one gulp, he downed at least half of his mug. "Your lady giving you trouble? Making you sleep on the couch?"

"I… no." He doubted Brenton would appreciate hearing about his problems, or about the seeds of doubt that had flourished in his head after talking with that fortune teller three days ago. "Everything's fine between me and Sybil. What about you and Belle?"

"She's getting clingy. Says she needs a ring, a dress and a husband who can provide for her. The bitch is damn fine, but I gotta drop her like a hot rock." He drank again, finishing whatever was left in his mug. He banged on his table, yelling, "Oi! Erik! Another one!"

"Not until you pay your tab!" Erik shouted over the counter. A few of the patrons snickered. The chances of Brenton paying any tab or tax was low, very low.

"Come on, Erik! Else I'll tell Elsie about you and your little bit on the side!" He threatened, those catty eyes of his gleaming dangerously. The patrons roared now with laughter, banging their glasses. Reaver folded his hands in front of him, holding back a laugh. This was why he was friends with this aficionado, this lover of women. It was this pathetic display of sass that drew Reaver towards Brenton.

Erik turned red, whether angry or embarrassed, Reaver would never know, and sent one of the waitresses to Brenton with two mugs of ale.

"Thank _you, _Erik." Brenton said, raising one of the glasses before guzzling one of them. Putting the glass back down, smacking his lips, Brenton looked at his friend.

"Look, whatever in Skorm is bothering you, just appreciate the fact that you've gotta a drop-dead gorgeous wife, a job, and enough money to keep you going for a while. Whatever you're going over in that dumb head of yours, it'll pass. Like a fart that wades around in the air or somethin'."

"Your drunk, aren't you?" Reaver smiled, chuckling slightly at the man.

"There's a buzzin' in my brain, but no, I'm not smashed yet." Brenton winked at his friend, finishing the drink. "Now get out of here, and go find your wife. I'm not putting up with your sad crap, not while there are pretty women around." He winked at their redheaded waitress, who giggled. She had a full bosom, Reaver noticed disinterestedly.

"Goodnight, Brenton." Reaver nodded to the man, who jerked his head upwards.

"Yeah, later."

Reaver moved from the table, past the jittering crowd, full of chatter and vibrancy and stepped out into the darkness outside. Cold air nipped at his high cheekbones, and he shivered slightly. Fall was coming soon; the leaves had already begun their subtle change from green to gold, orange and red. It would be a shame, as Reaver enjoyed summer so much.

Sighing, he stood in front of the tavern which was still rumbling with life, leaving himself to be with his thoughts. Sibyl had said that the fortune teller was running a scam for money, and had laughed at the very thought that their marriage would end abruptly in death. Even when he exclaimed his worries to her, she had simply waved them off, calling him silly. Of course death would not tear them apart, of course they would be together.

"_I love you, and you love me," _Sibyl had said. _"Even if we died, we'd still be together because of that. Because it ties us together, like a little red string from your finger to mine. Together forever, okay?"_

If only they had known.

"Good afternoon." Came a voice, oddly familiar. Reaver looked up to see the blindfolded Theresa in front of him. Her sudden appearance startled him slightly, he hadn't heard her footfalls or the sound of her breathing. It was as if she'd appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost.

"Oh," Reaver responded, his thoughts abruptly cast from his mind. "Hello. I don't think I introduced myself to you, properly. My name is-"

"I know your name." She interrupted him, in her hands was a worn, very worn, old book. There was a symbol on it, of a snake devouring another snake, creating a full circle. "That is not why I am here."

"Well, okay…" Reaver suddenly felt guarded. This woman was strange, odd. And again, there was that tingling feeling at the base of his spine. "Welcome to Oakvale, in case no one's greeted you proper. We don't get many travelers around here, since no one is brave enough to go through Darkwood."

Perhaps that was what had happened. Perhaps this woman's mind had been addled by the monsters, the Balverines. If so, then he wanted to back away slowly.

"You seek a way out, do you not?" She was watching him, or at least, that's what it felt like. For some reason, Reaver could feel her staring at him through that blindfold, through the fabric and it was a very creepy feeling. "A way to vanquish death once and for all?"

"How do you know that?" Reaver took a step backwards. He didn't like this woman… this figure of ambiguity. She shouldn't know his thoughts or his doubts, shouldn't know _anything _about him. "Stay away, _witch." _He spat, looking at her with scornful brown eyes.

"Sibyl believed I was extorting Oakvale for a few coins. I was not. I see death in your future, and I see your doubts. I offer a way out of a death, a chance to cheat it." Theresa replied, and she handed the book to him. Reaver looked down at it. The book was brown and old, and the Ouroboros on the cover sent shivers down his spine.

When he looked up, mouth open to ask the fortune teller about the book, she was gone.

All that was left was a man who feared death, and the book that would allow him to cheat it.

Oakvale's fate was sealed.

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**Feedback is appreciated~!**


	4. Apple

Modus Vivendi

Part IV: Apple

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

Outside, the sky was painted with the dregs of midnight, and Reaver could see it clearly through the window of his and Sybil's little house near the outskirts of Oakvale. He sat in the study, alone, the strange tome set out in front him like some precious treasure. Reaver hadn't opened it since the fortune teller had given it to him, too afraid and too worried about what would be inside.

And so he stared at it, the strange symbol on the cover staring back at him. There was something… sinister about the book. As though it emanated a certain wickedness that Reaver could not put into words. Delicately, with fingers made for the artist's canvas or the writer's pen, Reaver traced the symbol with careful precision. It looked as if the eyes of the snakes glittered dangerously in response, like stars within the darkness of the night sky.

He opened the book.

The parchment was yellowed at the edges, whether from age or being left out in the sun too long, Reaver was not sure. But the words, the words emblazoned across the page were decadent symbols. Runes. It was not his own language, the dark symbols swirled across the book, carefully and evenly spaced, as if it had taken time to make them.

"_What is this…?" _He thought to himself, lifting the tome from the desk, propping it upwards to get a better look. _"I don't understand these!"_

With a disgusted, haughty snort, Reaver placed the book back down and stood, turning to look out the window. A few of the tavern's patrons swayed drunkenly from side-to-side, eager to find their homes in their tawdry displays of self-flagellation, and few late night farmers walked back to their families in scrupulous manners, aware that the harvest season was not bringing in much gold. And then there were the people in their homes, the mothers telling stories to their children, the lovers whispering sweet nothings to each other as they wrapped themselves in love's embrace.

They were all dying. Each and every one of them. It was a slow, drawn out process, marked by each second, minute, hour, day… and it was a process Reaver wanted desperately to stop. What a weak man he was, so afraid of death and its ghastly, avaricious grip. He leaned against the glass, peering down at the people below in the streets, so happy, and jovial and _unaware._

He closed his green-flecked eyes, feeling the coolness of the glass against his raised palm, and the curvature of his widow's peak. The door to his study quietly opened, and Reaver, startled by the noise, turned to see his love come in, a tray of tea in her hands.

"What in the world are you doing up here?" She asked, looking at him in that cute little way of hers. Reaver walked towards her, taking a teacup from the tray. These were his favorite cups, porcelain with little soldiers adorning the edges.

"Researching." He plainly replied, taking a sip from the tea. Black, two cubes of sugar. Perfect. Sybil was always perfect in everything she did. The seraph placed the tray down on his desk, her gaze lingering on the book. Reaver watched her, uncaring of the fact that she was sticking her nose into his business. If he couldn't translate it, she most certainly couldn't.

"These runes…" Sybil whispered, her slender fingers dancing across the page lightly. "Love, I've seen these before…"

Reaver nearly dropped his teacup, and walked quickly over the bend beside her. He could barely contain his excitement within his voice, "You have? Where?"

It was impossible. There was no possible way for her to know what the runes were. He looked at his cup of tea. Those little soldiers were staring up at him with wide black eyes.

"Ariadne has books with runes like these," Sybil replied, looking at the page with curious eyes. "You know she studies the Old Kingdom, yes? She's got books like these, with all sorts of different languages."

"Does she know what they say? Or does she keep them around because they're pretty?"

Sybil gave him a _look. _

"She's a _scholar, _love. I doubt she keeps anything around because it's attractive. In fact, just the other day I went over there, and all of her fish were dead in her aquarium, she had a vase of wilting roses on the kitchen table, and she was staring at the wallpaper with that blank stare of hers. Hadn't eaten for two days. Absent-minded she is, my loveable sister." Sybil sighed, pulling away from the desk. She took the second cup from the tray. As sweet as the woman was, she only took her tea as it came: bitter. The woman despised sweets.

Reaver sat back down in his chair, as Sybil leaned against the window. The woman let out a contented hum, watching the streets as Reaver had just minutes ago. She looked at them with an optimistic set of mind, preferring to see the streetlights as blurring stars and the people not as walking soon-to-be-cadavers, but as what they were: people.

"Perhaps I should go to her? These symbols make me curious." Those little soldiers stared up at him with such menacing eyes as he sips from the rim of the teacup.

They knew what Sybil did not.

The angel, so delicate, so silent with her footfalls, moved from her position and laid her teacup next to the book. She pulled at the collar of Reaver's shirt, and the man grinned. Placing her lips, silky and colored like tremulous roses, on the curve of his neck.

"Tomorrow." She murmured against his skin. She unbuttoned the front of her blouse, as Reaver stood, pushing the chair out of the way. There was no need for it in matters like this. Sybil's fingers were pushed from the second black button by Reaver's arms, and he continued her previous ministrations.

"You're beautiful." He whispered, pulling her towards him. Her naked chest, so generous, was pressed against him. She smiled, a white lily in the grasp of the fierce wolf.

They spent a long night in the study, together.

* * *

Ariadne, Sybil's sister, lived on the edge of Barrow Fields, the area between Oakvale and Darkwood that had once used to house traders. The Grey House loomed eerily above the relatively peaceful district, and as Reaver moved through throngs of travelers and traders, the strange book bouncing in his bag, he thought about how beautiful the place was. It was strange, for a woman like Ariadne to live in such a serene place.

Birds flitted to and fro in front of the house, scattering dark shadows over the green grass. The house was quaint, small and built in the form of a Bohemian loft. The brown paint peeled slightly, and the fence was in terrible, dilapidated condition but the garden was remarkably well-kept, given Ariadne's tendency to leave things unkempt.

As he approached the blue door, Reaver took notice of the brass knocker. It was in the shape of a roaring lion, the ring kept between the beast's mouth, as if caught like a piece of fresh meat between the gaping maw. Taking the ring in his long-fingered hand, he knocked once.

The sound reverberated loudly around him, and a few minutes passed before, finally…

"Come in." The voice was quiet, not well-used, and didn't seem suited to talking.

Reaver, feeling decidedly nervous for once, opened the door and walked in to Ariadne's home.

* * *

**Feedback is appreciated.**


	5. Ravens

Modus Vivendi

Part V: Ravens

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

The inside of Ariadne's house was an explosion of parchment, yellowed and other bits scribbled on, and books. There were books in large stacks on every table, books bending the shelves of a bookcase, and there were books half-opened on the floor, marked by little page markers with Ariadne's scrawling, minute handwriting. Reaver could barely pick out the wood of the floor beneath the monstrosities of paper.

"Hello?" The voice, ill-suited to anything above a whisper, called out. "I'm in the study, please, come in."

Reaver, walking past an aquarium that was surprisingly devoid of fish, found his way, somehow through the sea of scientific papers and proposals, into Ariadne's study. Her study, the only tidy room in the entire house, was devoid of any real furniture except a desk, a worn oriental rug, and two winged back chairs.

Ariadne looked quite unlike her sister. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Sybil, though her features were rather pleasing to the eyes. Her cheekbones were high and well-defined, and her lanky body all angles and sharp edges. Where Sybil was fair, Ariadne was dark. Her hair, extremely short and ruffled in a manner that seemed to suggest that she'd just gotten out of bed, had the coloring of a raven's crest. She looked up from _The Book of Doom, _a thin manuscript that rested in her lap. For a second, her deep green eyes twinkled in amusement, but the reaction was quickly slashed down by a curt,

"Oh, good morning."

Reaver smiled, as was the pleasant thing to do, replying earnestly, "Yes, good morning Ariadne. Did I catch you at a bad time?" He gestured to the book in her lap.

The raven-haired woman snorted, throwing the book onto the desk, "I am very happy you caught me. This book is such rubbish, that I'm not even sure why I am reading it, to be honest."

"Sybil warned me that you could never keep away from an unread novella before I left this morning." His smile began to strain, at the mention of his lovely fiancée. Ariadne laughed, waving a hand towards the other chair, offering him a place to sit.

"And why are you here? I was not expecting you to visit me. Are you here for hints, perhaps? If so, then I give you a single tip: Sybil loves roses." She waved a finger, grinning. She was missing a single tooth from the bottom row, though it was hardly noticeable. Leisurely, she leaned back in the winged chair, her thin body pressed into the velvet cushions. Reaver removed his pack and languidly, he pulled out the strange book. It seemed heavier than it should have been.

"No, I'm afraid I'm not here about Sybil. Here," He handed her the book, watching as she took it delicately from his grasp. "Take a look at this."

She looked at the cover eagerly, her green eyes glittering with a thirst for knowledge. Ariadne, being ever the bookworm, would pass over no unread book. She desired to know of everything, and it had been the fact that she could not know everything within a short lifetime that had strode her to seek eternal life.

If only the two of them had known. Man was not meant to taste the forbidden fruit.

"This is of the Old Kingdom…" She cracked it open, her stubby fingers running over the pages. The moment her gaze fell upon the strange runes, her gaze withered slightly, as if disappointed by the fact that she couldn't have all the answers right then and there. "These runes… hold on, I'll be back in a second."

With that she jumped up from the chair, running out of the study, taking the strange book with her. Reaver took a moment to scrutinize the disgustingly happy, yellow wallpaper. As a minute passed, he grew bored and leaned back in the chair, feeling the softness of the velvet underneath him. More minutes passed. Reaver began to look for patterns in the swirling sanguine rug, noticing a large tea stain in the corner of it, as if someone had dropped a cup on top of it and hastily attempted to clean it up.

When a half-hour passed, Sybil returned, carrying the strange book in one arm, and having tucked two others in her armpit.

"These runes aren't a language… well, kind of. They're glyphs. Do you know about Will Users, the kind that used to roam Albion and save the people from bandits and Balverines and what have you?" She announced, jerking her head towards the desk. Unceremoniously, Ariadne dumped the books on to the desk, and Reaver walked beside her as she laid them out.

He answered her, thinking of the strange old woman, the fortune teller who had bestowed the book to him in the first place, "Yes. Are you saying magic is involved?"

"Indeed. I'm surprised, I didn't think you believed in such a thing." She gave him the kindest grin. It was the grin of someone who'd made a great many arguments and was still tossed away as some nutter who was only making things up as she went along. Reaver avoided her gaze, looking at the symbols… the glyphs, and the book that would help the two translate them.

"This is going to take a very long time." He commented, noting for the first time, the great many pages.

"If we work at a quick pace, it should only take a few months. There are ten 'letters' in the entire system, and they make sounds like ch or th. Like this one, here," She pointed to a symbol that seemed to resemble a half-moon with spokes inside. "This is a glyph for the th sound."

"I see." Reaver replied. "We should get started then, I'm curious to see what this is."

"Before we do, can I ask how you came by this? It's a rare find." She looked to him, her meadow green eyes searching for something within his face. "Old Kingdom artifacts are… well, frankly they're so rare that they're nearly nonexistent."

His reply came out very quick, and he tripped over his words, "I… ah, I… er found it. In the fields in Oakvale."

Ariadne cocked a thin black eyebrow, as if unimpressed or unconvinced by his answer, "Did you now? And it was just lying there, unsupervised?"

Reaver felt very much like a young schoolboy being scolded by his teacher, he flushed, and looked away from the woman, back at the glyphs which now so rightly deserved his undivided attention. Ariadne's eyes lingered on him for a second before turning back to the books.

They began the first day in a series of long months, poring over those books.

* * *

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	6. Liar

Modus Vivendi

Part VI: Liar

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

Three months passed before Reaver and Ariadne made any real progress.

Reaver and Sybil had gotten married within that time, Erik's wife Elsie figured out about his affair and he had drunken himself to death in the middle of Barrow Fields, Brenton had dropped Belle like a hot rock and was flirting shamelessly with the female bard that had found her way into Oakvale, the fortune teller had left Oakvale very soon after Reaver went to Ariadne…

Life had gone and moved on as usual, and still, the villagers had no idea that their precious little town of Oakvale would soon be razed to the ground. They'd no inkling of the fact that soon, very soon, life would be nothing but a long-forgotten memory in the middle of a marsh.

Sybil did not question her husband's frequent visits to her sister, though a large firestorm of gossip had started in Oakvale. People began to wonder if the perfect couple were already beginning to have problems in their marriage, or if Reaver fancied his wife's sister, and not his wife.

"I'll be back before noon," Reaver told Sybil as he rose from the breakfast table, pulling on his coat. Sybil gave him a small little frown, one that expressed her displeasure at Reaver leaving her so soon once again. "Have a nice day, love."

He quickly reached for the doorknob of their front door, but stopped hesitantly when Sybil said,

"Wait."

Reaver turned towards his wife, giving her a small, comforting smile. He knew what the townspeople were saying about him and Ariadne. And he truthfully did not care a whit what they said. It was lies, all of it. His smile quickly turned to a scowl when he noticed the hurt, agitated look on Sibyl's face. She twiddled with the strings of her apron, and her big blue eyes refused to look everywhere except at his face.

"Love, what is wrong?" He put one hand on her shoulder, and the other under her chin, tilting her face up towards him. He noticed how remarkably short she was compared to him. "This isn't about what those dreadful gossipers are saying, is it?"

"Is it true?" She said quickly. There were tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. "I mean, you're always at her house and your never _here, _with me, your _wife _and I… do you like her more? Is it because she's smarter and thinner and-"

"Sibyl, Sibyl, please." The tears in her eyes dripped down her cheeks. She was truly upset, and for good reason. Reaver, smiling at her, though his heart sank horribly in his chest, wiped away her tears with his gloves. "No, it isn't true. I love you, I married _you, _not Ariadne. Do you remember that book?"

Sibyl stiffly nodded; she was still refusing to look at him.

"I'm helping her with the translating. There's nothing between us, do you understand?" He took her cheeks in both hands and tentatively pressed a kiss to her rose red lips. She trembled a bit, and was frigid and unresponsive to such an act of love.

"I…" Sibyl started, her blue eyes searched his brown for any hint of a lie. "Yes. Very well. I love you, too."

He left her there, pressing a last kiss to the bridge of her nose. Sibyl stood there, staring at the wooden floors of their home for a few minutes before returning to her cooking.

Many days, Reaver wished he'd spent more time with her.

* * *

Ariadne had set out a plate of cookies on the desk. Her cooking skills were not very refined, and it showed in the misshapen forms of the cookies. Though, they were rather delicious. Reaver couldn't help himself from devouring a good half of them.

"This is a list, here." Ariadne explained. The raven-haired woman paced up and down the room. The list she spoke of was underlined with a shaky line in bright red ink. Reading the translated list, Reaver noticed with growing dread that it was a menagerie of strange items. Like salt, chalk and green candles.

"Rather strange items, don't you think?" He replied, softly, looking back at the woman. She nibbled on her thumbnail, her expression a cross between frustration and extreme exhaustion. For a moment, Reaver feared that the fortune teller had played a joke on him. What would need such a bizarre array of things?

Ariadne seemed to think about this for a moment, and stopping her pacing around, she looked at the book with a fire in her eyes. As if she were determined to unravel the secrets within its pages, to peel away its layers of mystery and discover an answer. It was all she desired.

"It's not a magic spell or that…" She murmured, her voice barely audible even in the small room. "It's a ritual. A summoning ritual… that's what the items are for. That's why we need them…"

"A summoning ritual? For what?" Intrigued, he stared at the menagerie of items. Ariadne joined his side, her eyes falling from the empty plate that had once been so filled with her cookies, to the papers, and then to Reaver himself. Here, her eyes softened a little, lost their fire.

"I don't know." Was her honest, whispered answer. Reaver lowered his head, his palms pressed into the side of the table. He closed his eyes, and his dark, black eyelashes brushed against the top of his high cheeks. Ariadne, her hand moved by some omniscient force, put it on top of his, her grasp lingering on top of his skin.

Brown eyes snapped open, and he looked at Ariadne. For a second, he felt some form of camaraderie between them, but jerked his hand back, remembering the gossip around Oakvale, the conversation that he had with Sybil just this morning.

"I…" He started, looking upon Ariadne's slightly hurt face. Reaver stopped himself. "No… I love Sybil."

Ariadne moved towards him, her eyes emotionless pieces of green ice.

"I know." She said. "But I… what we've been doing the past three months… please tell me you haven't noticed that we have a bond."

He looked at this woman, this girl who was so unlike her angelic sister in every way. Reaver noticed the sudden feelings that twitched in the pit of his stomach, and he didn't stop Ariadne when she put her hands on his shoulders, standing on her tippy toes.

Green eyes, green eyes that were not blue, not like Sybil's locked with brown. Ariadne pressed a tentative, unsure kiss to his lips. And suddenly, Reaver, losing all manner of control, took the raven haired woman roughly by the shoulders and slammed her back into the wall behind him. He pressed his body viciously against hers, his teeth ravaging her lips. He forgot about his wife, as Ariadne clawed off his shirt, forgot that he had a family waiting for him at home, as his fingers curled in the black curls of the woman's hair.

Ariadne lifted up her legs, curling them around his waist.

It was the first of many sins to be committed by the man known as Reaver.

* * *

The walk home from Barrow Fields was the longest walk he'd ever gone on.

Reaver looked down at the ground, as he walked along the path. He could still taste Ariadne's tongue within his mouth, a taste that was so similar to the finest wine, and he could still feel the sheen of her sweat against his skin, an imprint that wasn't so dissimilar to a tattoo. And he could feel guilt. Oh, how guilt had filled him up, threatening to spill over out of him like lava from a volcano…

He wished for a Balverine to come and maul him, so he wouldn't have to face his wife, so he wouldn't have to speak to her and not tell her of the lie he'd just committed. However, when he reached their little home on the outskirts of Oakvale, he had not come across any random monster that could tear him the shreds, and he hadn't tried to shove that guilt into a little pit.

Opening the door, with tentative hesitation, he walked into his home. No, not his home, it was _their _home. His and Sybil's. And he had betrayed _them. _The two of them, whatever they were.

"Love?" Sybil's head popped out of the corner, she looked slightly messy, her golden hair tangled and strewn about her pointed face as if she'd been running through a windstorm. Her eyes twinkled, the blue in them seemed lighter somehow.

She was happy? How could she be so frustratingly happy.

Reaver swallowed the apologies that had sprung unwanted to his lips as she embraced him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He hoped, oh Avo how he hoped, that she didn't smell the smell of musty pages and cheap perfume on him, that she wouldn't recognize the scent of her own sister.

Sybil stepped back, holding his hands in her own, while he remained quiet, offering his wife a strained smile. She seemed too happy, too jubilant to notice that there was anything unusual about her husband.

"I've got wonderful news," She said, her voice light as a feather and just as soft. "I went to the apothecary today…"

Reaver, who shivered slightly, tightened his grasp on her hands, watching her with falsely contented eyes.

"And?"

"I'm pregnant." The words sounded final, like the last nail in a coffin. "We're going to have a baby girl."

As though he'd been thrown into the middle of the Northern Wastes and left for dead, Reaver froze. His hands fell from Sybil's, and he muttered a lackluster,

"That's wonderful, dear."

Sybil put a hand on her stomach, not questioning her husband's quietness. All she saw ahead of her was the shine of a future family, the exhilaration at being given the chance to be a mother. Her smile, wide and toothy, not like Sybil's small smirks, made Reaver feel worse than he already felt.

"I'm going to make a wonderful dinner, tonight!" She turned and headed into the kitchen. "So save your appetite!"

Reaver stood there, trembling slightly, staring at his hands. He thought of the curve of Ariadne's arse, the soft strands of her black hair—

He moved to the safety of his study, and sat in front of the desk. Deftly, he removed his wedding ring from its finger, and placed the gold band in front of him. He stared at it, marveling at the simplicity of such a thing.

Why did he do it? Why did he? He had never felt anything like the _lust, _the _passion _he'd felt in Ariadne's house. His lack of self-control then frightened him, and now that Sybil was pregnant…

Pregnant. That word hung over him like a thick black cloud, weighing on his mind heavily. He was going to have a family. Reaver could not have affairs.

He couldn't.

With deadened eyes, he looked at the small, minute engraved words on the inside of his wedding band.

_Always Faithful._

* * *

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	7. Death

Modus Vivendi

Part VII: Death

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

They didn't talk about it.

Sometimes his hand would linger on hers for far too long, and other times he would catch her staring at him with those wintergreen eyes of his, before turning back to her translating. And, once in awhile, they would start talking and trail off suddenly, standing in front of one another awkwardly. Reaver wasn't sure what kept them from doing what they'd already done, but, if he thought about it and he did, constantly, he kind of knew.

Sibyl. The fact that they'd betrayed the person they both cared deeply for kept them at arm's length. There was passion between them, a sort of spark that Reaver had been trying to convince himself for the past month didn't exist, but it was their love, their care, for the girl with her angelic tendencies that prevented them from broaching about the affair.

And Sybil was pregnant. He felt a swell of pride in his stomach upon thinking of this. He was going to have a little girl, a little girl who would have her mother's flax hair and tawny freckles, a little girl who would have big brown eyes that were just like his and a small little beauty mark just under her left eye, a hereditary gene that ran in Reaver's family.

He had told Ariadne this a week after they'd engaged in that sinful lie, and she had looked at him with a hurt expression, cruel lines touching her pink lips.

"That's wonderful. I'm happy for you two." She had ground out. For some reason, Reaver thought she sounded jealous. It was the sort of jealousy you'd expect from someone who had laid their claim upon something. Like a cat does to a marker, to mark their territory.

Still, they never spoke of it. That affair.

The two were bent over the books, reading the final passages, their mouths slightly open with the revelation of what they had discovered. This book, this small, minute and truly unremarkable text could offer them _anything. _It could offer them the very thing that they so desired.

Immortality.

"This book…" Ariadne began, her eyes wide, glittering like little emeralds in their sockets. "This summons some sort of Old Kingdom god… or quite possibly gods. They offer granted wishes in exchange for a sacrifice."

Reaver pointed out the name of the 'gods', "The Shadow Court. That's what they're called."

He trembled with excitement, a self-satisfied grin touching the corners of his cheeks. Finally, after a decade of torture, a decade of counting each second and knowing he could never get it back, of looking at himself in the mirror and realizing that he was getting older, that his beauty was fading… he could live forever! He could cheat death!

"I could live forever…" Reaver said, the sentence pouring from his lips. He watched the tome with greedy eyes, his long fingers running over their work.

"And so can I." Ariadne nodded. "I can learn everything. I can read everything. Live forever, learn forever…"

The two bathed in the happiness of their discovery. Reaver picked Ariadne up and twirled her around, like a little girl would to her ragdoll, and the two laughed. After a few seconds of realizing what he was doing, however, he hastily put her back down and the two avoided their gazes, flushing crimson.

"How long do you think it would take to get all of this?" He gestured to the list they had talked of only a month ago. Ariadne put a finger to her lips, in thought.

"A week. Some of these things you can't get in Oakvale. I'll have to have them shipped from Bowerstone. And those poor sods will have to go through Darkwood."

Reaver, gathering up his jacket from the armchair in Ariadne's study, bid her good day and left, promising that he would return in a week.

He whistled to himself as he returned to Oakvale, it was a small, jaunty tune that his own mother had sung to him countless times.

"_Down by the reeds, down by the reeds, swim the sirens of Oakvale… out to the seas. Down by the reeds, down by the reeds, float the souls left unbroken by White Balverines…"_

Not once did he think of the fact that Sibyl, and his unborn daughter, would not be immortal along with him.

He thought only of himself. Of only _his _interests.

* * *

Sibyl set down _Marriage and How to Survive It, _beside her, rising to greet her husband as he came through the door. Something… rolled off of him. Happiness. Joy. Accomplishment. Sibyl could feel… _something _coming off of him in waves, a mixture of those previous three emotions. Reaver held something behind his back, and as Sibyl rose to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth, she attempted to sneak a glance at what he held.

"Ah," He tutted, looking at her with half-lidded eyes. "No peeking, sneaky girl."

Sibyl cocked a golden eyebrow, and Reaver looked at her expectedly. Rolling her eyes and letting out an annoyed sigh, she closed her eyes and outstretched both of her hands. Reaver chuckled, laughing at his always impatient wife, and with careful precision, he dropped the velvet box into her hands. Sibyl felt the corners with her fingers, her face contorting in confusion.

"Okay," Reaver said, a smile gracing his mouth. "You can open them, now."

Eyelashes fluttered, revealing the two blue orbs that Reaver loved oh-so-much, and she stared down at the velvet box. She looked up at Reaver, a quizzical expression on her face, then back at the dark black of the box, her long fingers running along the surface.

Opening it, she stopped, her lips parted in astonishment.

"Love… it's a… my favorite…" She tripped over her words, pulling the ruby necklace from its box. The chain was a beautiful gold, twisted into intricate whorls, shaped in the form of leaves. Heavy rubies dangled from the chain, Sibyl's favorite gem. "What's the occasion?" She finally managed to ground out, looking up at her husband.

"I've been gone a lot, what with that book…" The images of him and Ariadne flashed viciously through his head, but he shoved them away, refusing to ponder his sudden lack of self-control now. "And this is… an apology, of sorts? I'm sorry I've been away so much, but soon, that won't be a problem. I'm very nearly finished."

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Sibyl's lips. Gesturing her to turn around, he deftly took the necklace from her fingers and clipped the clasp for her. She turned around, facing him, looking at the gift that dangled from her neck.

"It's beautiful." She said, smiling at him. There were tears of happiness in her eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

A week passed. Reaver spent the majority of the time with Sibyl, helping her set up the nursery in their home. They had painted the room a pale pink, had gotten a white crib, and had argued angrily over a name. It seemed as though life would be wonderful.

For Reaver, his life was going to take a whole new direction.

Ariadne lit five of the green candles, the light casting dim shadows in the darkness of her study. The candles were all placed in the shape of a pentagon, with two pillows put inside, for Reaver and Ariadne to sit on. Reaver sprinkled salt across the area, and as each grain left the tips of his fingers, he felt something horrid crawl up his spine. Something… monstrous.

The two took their places, the note in front of them, shadows pooling in the dips of their collarbones, and the contours of their faces.

"Ready?" Ariadne asked, her hands pressed on the paper.

"Whenever you are."

They began, whispering the Old Language, their voices rising in cacophony, echoing in the smallness of the room. The flames of the candles flickered, as if moved by some unknown force. The words of the Old Language left a bitter trace on Reaver's tongue, and a drop of sweat rolled down his forehead as he continued. Ariadne trembled slightly, her eyes flitting over the words on the page, her shoulders shaking as she spoke.

Suddenly, the candles died, flickering out. Ariadne gasped, rising to her feet, though Reaver could not see her in the complete darkness.

Reaver felt weary all of sudden, and his eyes closed, not of their own accord, and his body sunk suddenly to the ground.

The last thing he heard was the thud his body made against the wooden floor of Ariadne's home.

* * *

**And the Oakvale chapters are almost done.**

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	8. Youth

Modus Vivendi

Part VIII: Youth

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

His body was splayed across something that bled darkness and sanguine. There was a dull beating in the shell of his ears, and achingly, he raised himself up. In the darkness, he could hear Ariadne groan as well, her voice light in the darkness.

For a moment, he thought he was still in the ancient home of his studious friend. But it took him a moment to realize that the two of them were on a small cliff, overlooking a foggy temple. It appeared, as though they were in a tower, but Reaver knew this to be impossible. Keeping his gaze lowered, he slowly, achingly so, lifted them up.

A small platform hovered in midair, the same dim red as the rest of the stone around him. Beside him, Ariadne had tensed, her body going completely frozen, and her eyes wide with bewilderment.

"Do you see those thrones?" Her voice was in a low, almost reverent whisper. "Over there, on the platform."

She pointed, with a trembling finger, at the three thrones atop the platform. The middle one was intact, covered in the bones of several skeletons, still white, untouched by the ravages of time. The other two had respective pieces of it broken off, also covered in memorabilia of the dead, giving off a ruined feel.

"What do you think this is?" He asked Ariadne, something in him began to shiver as well. "This… is it the Shadow Court?"

The moment that title spilled from the edges of his lips, the tower shook, and Ariadne grasped Reaver's shoulder painfully for stability, holding tight, her fingers digging into his shirt. At the foot of the thrones, three dark masses began to form, twirling together like a tumultuous windstorm. Slowly, they began to take shape, turning into something that was almost… human.

"_Welcome…" _The one in the middle drawled out. It sounded like a man, though there was nothing about it that was even remotely humanoid. It was as though all emotion and feeling had been drained from the voice, leaving nothing behind but a empty monotone.

"_Welcome…" _The two others repeated in kind, like a mantra, a prayer. _"Welcome…"_

"_Who summons the Shadow Court?" _Again, the middle one started, it appeared as though it were the leader.

Ariadne opened her mouth to speak, stuttering, every part of her body shaking in sudden fear, "W-We do."

The Shadow Court's eyes, yellow like a cat's, or pieces of dirtied amber, fell upon the two, narrowed. They seemed to watch them for an innumerable amount of time, studying every inch of Ariadne and Reaver. Reaver felt as though his soul were being laid bare for them to see, as though they could pick apart every aspect of his mind and see just what was inside.

"_You desire eternal youth… beauty… life…" _They said, stretching each syllable. Ariadne nodded eagerly, and Reaver felt his Fight or Flight instincts beginning to kick in, though he had no idea where he was going to flight to. _"Such a thing requires a sacrifice… and what kind of sacrifice would you be willing to offer to us, to get what you need?"_

They rolled the word need upon their tongues, using it like a salesman would to some ridiculous sales pitch.

Reaver, this time, stepped forward, his brown eyes flashing with something that had never been seen within his eyes. It was the flashing of decadence, of sin, of tasting something that should have never been tasted,

"Anything," He said, and his voice was filled with steely determination. "We'll give you anything. Everything."

"_Everything…?" _The leader seemed to narrow his eyes, whether in amusement or thought, and looked at his associates. If they could smile, Reaver imagined they would. _"Anything…?"_

"Yes," Ariadne, steadying herself as well as her voice, confirmed, her eyes wavered slightly upon looking at the people in front of her. "Yes, we'll give you all that we have! For life! For youth!"

The air around their feet became the color of midnight, swirling around them like it had to the Shadow Judges. Dregs of the black aura curled around them, touching them, burning them. Ariadne screamed, burned by the blackness, and Reaver's body buckled, sending him downwards, in an awkward half-bow before the Judges.

The pain was exquisite. It was horrible. It was beautiful. Even then, he could feel the age seeping from his face, the premature wrinkles erasing from the corners of his eyes, the discolored circles under his eyes vanishing…

Suddenly, without warning, the pain ceased, and the two fell to the ground, breathing heavily, spent from the vicious attack they had just gone through.

"_The price of life must be paid in full with death. With beauty. With youth. And should the sacrifices cease, know that we will come for you, and we will take what you now treasure most. Your life. Your soul. Your youth."_

Ariadne raised her head, slowly, looking at them with wide, so very wide eyes, her fingers digging into the crimson stone beneath her. The Shadow Court vanished, their dark masses disappearing, like a brush of wind. Reaver gagged, coughing, trying to pull himself back up, but a great weariness had spread over him, as though he had a boulder or some other burden pressed upon his shoulders.

And then, there was a sudden bright light, blinding the two of them. They raised their hands to their now youthful faces, feeling weightless in the warmth of this whiteness.

The next thing they knew, they were in Barrow Fields.

On his back, staring up into the night sky, dotted with stars, Reaver heard the cawing of ravens, the grass tickling his cheeks. Beside him, Ariadne began to slowly sit upwards, her shoulders trembling with some realization that Reaver had not quite grasped yet.

"I…" He started, there was uncertainty in his voice. He had not yet noticed how quiet it was, nor how unnatural the air around him seemed. "What happened? Ariadne, what just happened? Are we…"

"We gave everything." The words tumbled from her lips, and she began shaking more and more, turning her head to look at him. Tears streamed from her bright green eyes. "Everything! Do you know… what that means? Everything that has ever… had meaning to you! To me! I…"

She buried her face in her hands, and still Reaver did not grasp the true meaning of her words, the true realization of what he had just done not yet coming to him. He sat upwards, fatigue still weighing heavily upon him, and placing a hand on Ariadne's shoulder, he attempted to comfort her,

"But we can live forever! Death can't take you, and it can't take me!"

Ariadne still sobbed, her lips moving as though she were trying to carve out words of some sort. However, Reaver was drawn away by the smell of something most peculiar.

It was the smell of fire.

* * *

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	9. Rebirth

Modus Vivendi

Part IX: Rebirth

"_You can't change the past. But you can ruin the present by worrying about the future."_

_

* * *

_

The smell of fire, that burning, dark smell wafted on the wind, carried like a leaf across the air. For a few seconds, the two froze, and then rose to their feet with a dizzying swiftness. Clouds of thick, black smoke rose into the night sky, like miniature tornadoes on the horizon. Reaver stiffened, the color drawing from his face as he realized just what was on fire.

His _everything._

"Oakvale…" Ariadne began, the color drained from her already pale, pinched face. The small gap in the bottom of her teeth was gone, Reaver distantly noticed. "Sweet Avo, Oakvale!"

She darted ahead of him, and Reaver ran behind her. There was a certain urgency in their trembling, wobbling gaits, their eyes trained solely on the seemingly burning torrent that was Oakvale. It took them only a few minutes to pass through Barrow Fields, through the oddly serene songs of the ravens, the peaceful falling of the leaves around them, and the winking of the stars above them. It was an illusion to the destruction that they would soon find.

The gate that led to Oakvale was crumbling, the rotting and burning wood falling to the ground. Showers of sparks greeted them as they ran into the town, stopping quickly, their hearts beating so fast, like the drums of some frightening tribal group. Ahead of them, they could see something so terrible, so scary…

They could see Death.

People, their bodies twisted by some abhorrent entity, were being pulled roughly from their homes, kicking and screaming by creatures that could only be described as tiny imps. The imps were tall, about half Reaver's own height, and were colored various bright colors. The ones that carried the balding Elsie from her ex-husband's tavern were a garish canary yellow. Their clawed fingers dug into her skin as they dragged her away. She did not fight, and left behind smears of crimson as her body rubbed against the ground. Brenton, Reaver's closest friend, was being pulled from his home by blue shadows.

And they knew it was _their _hubris that caused this.

"Brenton…" Reaver started, watching his best friend being taken, he ran to him. "Brenton!"

He tried to pull at the angular, sharp shoulders of the imps, but his grasp went straight through them. It was as if they were some ghostly, spectral beings that he could not touch. Ariadne joined him, and the two watched as Brenton was helplessly taken away by the blue shadows.

"What… what the bloody hell have we done?" Reaver watched his best friend fall to the shadows, and for a second, it seemed as though he were going to throw up. Ariadne trembled beside him, and once more, she seemed to realize something before him.

"Sibyl…" Ariadne began, her green eyes alight with something greater than fear and no less than horror. She hugged her chest, her chewed nails digging into her arms. "Sibyl! Sibyl! We need to find her," Here, she turned to Reaver, pulling him by the arms. Like a mad woman, she shook him wildly, her eyes burning into his like the fires around them. "We need to find her!"

Reaver felt as though someone had thrown a very heavy boulder onto his shoulders. He ripped Ariadne's arms from his own, running through the fires of Oakvale, running with Ariadne close behind him. It seemed as though there were a clock, a deadline on how long he could take to find his love. Time felt like it crawled by slower than ever, a deafening irony in the face of the atrocities he had just seen.

Sibyl's pale, beautiful and dying body hung from the front steps of their home. Her arm was twisted, broken, just above her head. And her golden, flax hair was matted with the sanguine of her own blood as it fanned out behind her head. Three red shadows were crowded around her, running spindly hands up and down Sibyl's body. However, they left her alone, as if they were waiting for Reaver to arrive.

Turning small, sharp-eared heads towards Reaver, the red shadows seemed to recoil away as the beautiful man approached his love. Her eyes were open, her lips parted as a small rivulet of blood ran from them. She twitched slightly, the fingers on her fractured hand flinching as Reaver stood above her, his shoulders trembling, his brown eyes wide with something akin to sadness.

"Sibyl," He choked out, moving quickly downwards to kneel beside her on the stairs. "Sibyl, my sweet, sweet Sibyl…" He reached out to touch her, but didn't, and tears began to run slowly down the contours of his cheeks. Ariadne eventually found her way to the front of the house, and she watched, with horrified green eyes as Reaver cradled the back of her sister's head and lifted it upwards.

The necklace he had given to Sibyl, the ruby necklace that had cost so much money, hung sideways from Sibyl's neck as he leaned forwards to bury his head in the crook of her shattered neck. Her skin was still warm, still cooling…

He felt a hand touch the back of his neck, and suddenly, Reaver jerked away, his eyes lighting with hope as he looked in the eyes of his beloved.

And there! There! Her lips moved, carving out words, and then,

"I…" There was a certain brightness in her blue eyes, a fire he hadn't seen before. "This… is…" Reaver brushed strands from her face as Sibyl raised a hand to… to… "It's… your…"

She weakly slapped him across the face, with all the strength she could manage, but the only thing she could do was lightly hit him on the face, her fingers brushing across his skin as her hand fell to her side.

"It's your… fault…" Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, falling as she took her last, shuddering breath.

Ariadne stiffened, watching the scene, and then bowing her head as tears fell from her closed eyes. Reaver kneeled there, shocked, looking at his love with wide eyes. It was _his _fault, she said. _His fault._

It was his fault.

The red shadows pulled him away and he stood, watching as they took Sibyl's broken, battered body away to a place he did not want to fathom. Reaver could feel newer flames rising in the heart of his home and Ariadne had to pull him away, back into the streets of Oakvale. The two of them stood there, for what seemed like an eternity watching as the flames swallowed their hometown, reducing it to ash. The screams of the townsfolk, of their friends, of people they had all once known or seen at some point in time, faded and soon, there was nothing but the two of them.

Ariadne, who was crying, her green eyes ringed with red, lifted her head to look at him, "Dori-" She began, but he had cut her off.

"That's not my name." His head was bent low to the ground, his fists clenched tightly, balled up at his sides. "It's not. No. Not anymore." The words tumbled out his mouth with the grace of a three-legged cat.

"I… this isn't…" There was a weak sense of determination in her words as she spoke. She forced her gaze away from him. "What is… your name?"

"Reaver." He said, after many long moments. "It's Reaver."

"This isn't… all of this, it's not our fault! It's the Shadow Court's, we can't be blamed for this!" She argued, moving in front of him. Her words did not ring with determination, as though she herself did not believe her own words. "They… they didn't tell us it would come to this! When we offered everything—"

"When we offered everything, anything to be… this," He finally raised his head, and Ariadne recoiled upon seeing the sheer hurt, pain in the man's eyes. "We meant everything. We meant anything. Sib—" He stopped himself, as though saying Sibyl's name cut him deeper than she could possibly imagine. "She was right. It's _my _fault. If I hadn't brought you that book, if we hadn't put our heart and soul into finding something that shouldn't be found… I… you…"

It was then that Sibyl sunk to her knees, the tears falling from her cheeks and onto the ash-covered ground. Reaver turned around, not wanting to face her, and suddenly, putting everything that he had into a run, he ran far, far away from Ariadne, leaving her behind in the remnants of Oakvale.

He could hear her call his name, but Reaver ignored her implores. He ran and ran and ran until eventually, he tripped over a dirt road and found himself collapsing by a strange door, who had been carved into the face of a man.

Reaver wasn't sure how many hours passed before someone found him. Long, girlish fingers prodded his shoulder and Reaver, groaning, looking up into the blurred face of a person with overlong red hair. His vision swam into darkness again.

"Hey!" Said the person. Their voice was warm, comforting, like a blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders. "Wake up!" Reaver felt his neck ache. "Shit…" The person swore.

* * *

_Depression is rage spread thin._

* * *

**And Oakvale is done.**

**Ariadne will not be forgotten, I assure you. I've got bigger plans for her than to just leave her there in Oakvale.**

**Feedback is appreciated~!**


	10. Storms

Modus Vivendi

Part X: Storms

"_Depression is rage spread thin."_

_

* * *

_

"_It's… your... fault…" He could hear, a slithering in the small of his ear. His body twisted amongst the ashes, his tears mixing with his blood as they ran down his skin. There was pain, in his bones, in his eyes, his mouth, his skin. It hurt everywhere as he crawled through the remains of Oakvale, a corpse picked clean by the fires and the shadows._

"_It's… your… fault…" The words replayed grotesquely in his mind, over and over and over again, like a mantra of Skorm's, a horrid prayer. Reaver pulled his body along, not bearing to look down and see what was wrong with the legs he was born with._

"_It's… your… fault…" Two bare, pale feet swam into view, and Reaver grabbed onto the ankles of the woman he could not see, crying into the hem of her light blue gown. With desperate eyes, his vision moved upwards, over the woman's lithe body._

_Sibyl's angry, aged face looked down at him. Wrinkles pulled at her forehead, the corners of her lips, and her eyes were not as bright, as lovely as they once were. Something akin to disgust was present on her lips, and she pulled backwards, away from his grasp. Weakly, Reaver let go of her ankles._

"_You're disgusting," Her voice was different, too. A hint of cruelty in that voice, that voice that sounded so much like water slapping against rocks. "Shoo. Go away."_

"_Sibyl…" Reaver pleaded, fresher tears ran down his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please…"_

"_It's your fault!" She raised a single foot and brought it down upon his head. There was a sharp pain, like a cracking against his skull, and suddenly there was nothing but darkness…_

* * *

Reaver's eyes snapped open, wild, brown orbs in the dim light of the house he was in. He bolted upwards, rivulets of sweat running down his face, fingers digging into the folds of the coverlets he was tucked into. He woke up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar home, and to an unfamiliar voice,

"You scream in your sleep, you know?"

The man's head swiveled around, to look at the owner of the unfamiliar voice. For a moment, he almost mistook the man for a woman. His hair was long, and ginger, like the color of a rose. He stood in front of a vanity, applying some sort of strange makeup to his cheeks, as though he were a lady of Bowerstone, and from the reflection in the mirror, Reaver could see his eyes. They were a dark grey, a strange, cloudy color that would remind one of the clouds before a great storm.

His name, was James.

Placing the compactor of makeup on the vanity, he turned towards Reaver. For such a pretty boy, he dressed in dull colors, and at the moment wore a _very _form-fitting shirt. It seemed to be made for a woman, or rather a harlot, as the collar was cut quite low.

"The name, is James," He gestured to himself with thin fingers, touching his lithe chest. "And I found you, sir, just outside the Demon Door of our lovely little Bloodstone."

Reaver watched him with uncertain eyes, and realized for the first time that he was dressed in strange pajamas. "My name is…" He started, almost prepared to state what his real name was, and stiffened. "Reaver. My name is Reaver."

"Reaver?" James' voice was high, as well, and slightly shrill. "How strange. You don't look like a bandit, of any sort, or a pirate. Did your parents have a horrid sense of humor?"

Reaver decided that this man, whatever he was, talked way too much, "I… yes. They had an awfully funny one. Quite annoying, really. Where am I, again?"

James moved over to one of the windows in the dingy little hovel Reaver had found himself in and pushed back the curtains, revealing the docks of a rather ugly little ocean, "Bloodstone! A crowd of hovels, prostitutes, taverns, bandits, pirates and other people of little renown or dignity. But who needs dignity anyway, in this time and era?" Here, he fluttered long eyelashes at Reaver. "I myself am a worker of one our… _delicious _little bordellos."

He felt distinctly uncomfortable, and avoided James' grey-eyed gaze for a few seconds, and then pulled himself out of bed, "I should really…" But his legs wobbled, and he fell backwards onto the bed.

"You were running pretty hard, and if you were from Oakvale… you ran really far." The ginger's words trailed off, there, and he was looking at Reaver with sympathetic eyes.

Reaver swallowed something heavy in his throat, something like guilt, "O-Oakvale…?"

"You were out for three days, had to go get Dr. Rhys, and the word's been all 'round Bloodstone: Oakvale was destroyed. Razed. Completely to the ground. They think its bandits. Or _Heroes," _James spat the last word out like it was poison or acid. "But no one's seen those bastards for decades, not since Albion got together and hung 'em all in the Arena. And that was _before _it was overrun by Balverines."

The girlish man crossed his arms over his chest, and Reaver got back into bed, too weak to do anything but lay about. His nightmare came back to him, in that sudden moment, and he could see Sibyl's angry, hateful face, and Ariadne's tearful wintergreen gaze.

"I'm not sure what it was. I saw fire and I…" Again, the whispers of the Shadow Court came to him. He lifted a hand to his face, and saw the glint of gold in his wedding ring. The letters on the inside of the band began to mock him.

_Always faithful._

James, straightening himself, seemed to take notice of the ring almost immediately, "That's a nice ring. Must've cost you a lot."

"It did." He didn't like how close the ginger was getting to him.

"Married?" James asked, but recoiled slightly upon seeing the hurt look on Reaver's face. "Ah, sorry… I can't imagine…"

"It's fine. I…" He could hear Sibyl's hateful words still. "I need… to continue on, I've got a long life ahead of me…" The words sounded hollow, insincere to him, but it was true. He was immortal now. He had lifetimes ahead of him but…

He wondered if it was worth it. If it was worth not having Sibyl, or his unborn daughter. Reaver closed his eyes, and James clapped his hands together,

"Excellent!" It seemed to be an ungainly attempt at lightening the mood. "I can arrange to take you around Bloodstone, tomorrow! Well, if you feel better and all…"

Reaver realized he was in a guest room as James left, moving to another room. And as soon as the man left, he let the tears he had been holding in the whole time stain his pillow, but he made no sound.

There was no Sibyl, there was no Oakvale, and there was no way but forward, now.

* * *

**Feedback is appreciated~!**


	11. Taste

Modus Vivendi

Part XI: Taste

"_Depression is rage spread thin."_

_

* * *

_

To say that James was revered in Bloodstone would be a serious understatement. The ambiguously androgynous boy waved merrily at people as he and Reaver walked by. The women giggled, some grotesque and others pretty in a slightly filthy way, commenting on the ginger's new "eye candy", whatever that was supposed mean. Men leered at him in the way they would leer at an attractive woman, and one rather brave man whistled at James as he walked by.

"Bloodstone _is _a rather dirty town," James said, his arm locked with Reaver's, and not by the latter's choice. "But one can always find employment! Whether it be as a pirate in Wicker's employ, a whore in the local whorehouse, a bandit, or even a maid… you can always find a way to make your means."

"Wicker?" Reaver inquired, trying to wrest his arm from James' grip, but the long-haired man was holding him tightly. Grey eyes glittered in amusement.

"You didn't get out much, did you? Wicker's the best shot in Albion, the Pirate King, a _great _client, but he's a nuisance." James waved this off as nothing, wrinkling his fine, straight nose. "When his men go on a drunken binge, it's best you stay away, far, far away. They have this horrible tendency to pillage and rape and what-have-you. Quite stereotypical of pirates, I must say." And then he shrugged, shaking his head, a small but terse smile pulling at his features.

A group of women, brandishing pistols, waved at the two as they approached the top of Bloodstone. The city was built on a small hill, and a large establishment loomed over the town, casting long shadows over the crowd of hovels and stores. It was the largest building in Bloodstone, and was for all purposes and intents, incredibly extravagant.

"_Monsieur _Aros' lovely little whorehouse." James explained, as they approached the surprisingly well-kept garden. It was obvious to anyone with half a slab of gray matter in their head that the man who owned the whorehouse was incredibly well-endowed…

With gold. Don't be disgusting.

"It's a little much, isn't it?" Reaver asked as the redhead unhooked his arm from the brown eyed man's, pulling out a small hand mirror to check and see if the dark eye shadow he had smeared on his eyes was still present and perfectly in place.

"This place? Well, it _is _what keeps Bloodstone going. Monsieur Aros runs the smuggling cartel as well, with Wicker. You could say he runs the whole town." Again, in that airheaded way of his, he shrugged. "I guess it's fair that he gives us back just as much as he takes."

Reaver cocked a thin eyebrow, letting drops of sarcasm seep into his voice as he spoke, "And no one does _anything _about it? They _let _their possessions get taken away from them? Their gold?"

For a second, the pretty boy looked incredibly surprise, and his eyes traveled into Reaver's. He traced the bottom of his lip with his thumb, smearing the shiny stuff he had put on that morning, and then, after a few milliseconds of contemplation, James laughed. He kneeled over, hands on his knees, the sound of his laughter high and annoying to Reaver's ears as the inky-haired man stared at him with disquieted disdain.

Pretending to wipe a fake tear from the corner of one of his swimmingly stormy eyes, James replied, "Reaver, Reaver," He seemed to be testing the name in his mouth for a second. "This is _Bloodstone. _There is no _law, _no _justice. _People do as they please. They steal, cheat, murder, loiter… Void, if I wanted to, I could tie you up and throw you into the ocean to drown, and no one would give a damn."

"_I'd _give a damn." Reaver spat, curtly. "Do you steal?"

James' entire expression changed for a second, a small frown tugged at his lips, and he looked pointedly away from Reaver, "When I was little. You can't honestly think that everyone's innocent, can you?"

Reaver thought of Sibyl, of her pale face, and sun-kissed hair, and a small knot started at the back of his throat, "I… there are people who…" Her blue eyes were smoldering in the back of his eyes, and tears threatened to form behind his eyes.

"Are innocent?" James, a wide grin spreading across his painted countenance, put his hands on his lips. "Like you?" Here, he elbowed the man, winking. "Don't worry, we can pop that delicious cherry together~!"

A large, crimson blush spread itself over the apple of Reaver's cheeks, but a small bit of wrath boiled angrily in his stomach like a pot of water that had been left over a fire for way too long. He was, in no way, innocent. He had seen… had _done _things that would have made James' skin crawl like maggots. Because of him…

Because of him…

"_No. Don't think about it. It is… Sibyl is…" _Reaver looked down, his gaze traveling over the cobblestone path that led up to the whorehouse in Bloodstone. His hands clenched tightly at his sides, his teeth ground into the corner of his lip.

James, without sufficient warning, hooked his arm back with Reaver's, pulling the man closely to him. His body was strangely cold, like the metal of a pistol, and Reaver felt awkward next to him. Like a little boy given a thorough scolding by his mother in front of a crowd of other kids. As they approached the large double doors, Reaver felt a chill run viciously down his spine. The redhead practically threw open the doors with a single hand, and the two waltzed in, like dancers in a stuffy ball, or the puppets dangled on a crimson string.

The furnishings inside were expensive, no doubt, but the people… _consorting _on them no doubt were sullying the lovely red and gold couches. A cacophony of moans, slaps and wet sounds accompanied the sweaty and salty air inside the bordello. Reaver shuddered as a disgusting, horrible stub of a man approached them. His beady black eyes snapped to Reaver, and then to James, before grabbing the pretty boy with a fat hand, shaking it tremulously. Beads of sweat shook on his receding hairline.

"Ah, thank Avo you're here, James, my boy. Your clients are getting…" He wiped the perspiration off his crown. "_Restless."_

The man, with his black eyes, looked over at Reaver, and there seemed to be a gleam in them. Reaver felt as though he were being auctioned off as a piece of meat when the man inched closer to him.

"And who is this _fine _fellow, hm?" He reached for one of Reaver's arms, but he jerked it away from the man's grasp. There was no way this… _bogey _was touching him. "Ah, fiery. Wonderful, that always gets the ladies crawling back here." There was an inflection of the aristocracy in his voice.

"His name is Reaver, Monsieur Aros. I found him just the other day, inching towards the Void ever so slowly. He's never been to Bloodstone, thought I'd show him around, you know, get him used to our quaint town." He winked at Aros, hands on his hips, like he knew something that Reaver didn't. Wiping his forehead again, Aros turned back to face James.

"Well, that's all fine and well, James," Aros pointed a sausage-like finger at him. "But my clients are not going to be happy if you blow them off for some… traveler."

James chuckled, "Oh, I disagree. I think they would be quite happy if I 'Blow them off'."

Aros face-palmed, and Reaver was slightly inclined to do the same at the rather pathetic attempt at innuendo. Running his fat little hand down his face, Aros, sniffed,

"Time is money, now get to work!"

And then the abhorrent, short little man ran off, escaping to some shadow within the three-story whorehouse.

"He's disgusting, isn't he?" Asked James. The humor shredded from his features, and for a second, there was something incredibly bored within those stormy eyes of his.

"He's the owner of a _bordello, _I can't honestly say I wasn't expecting that." Reaver replied, shortly, his eyes glittering with disdain for the place he stood in. A certain set of moans within the whorehouse began to grow louder and louder, and another succumbed to nothing but a murmur of sighs.

James, giggling like a little schoolgirl who had a crush on one of her teachers, pulled Reaver aside, "Come on, follow me."

"Don't you have _clients _to attend to?" Reaver, not wanting to go with the redhead, and really just wanting to leave the whorehouse as quickly as possible, asked James.

In response, he laughed, lightly, "Oh, they'll wait for me. They always do. Just shut up and follow me." He jerked his head backwards, tousling strands of ginger hair. Around them was a circus of flesh against flesh, slapping, molding, melting, murmurs of foreplay and whispers of payments that were not forgotten during their acts. Eventually, they found themselves on the upper level, in a private room and James pushed – practically shoved, really – Reaver into one of the couches in the room. He sunk uncomfortably into the chair, which was worn and plush from various amounts of… abuse.

James leaned over a vanity in the room, using part of the king-sized bed as a chair. He pulled out a bottle of cheap wine, pouring the fine liquid into chipped glasses.

"Wine?" Reaver stuttered a bit, as James handed him one of the glasses, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

"_Cheap _wine. Unfortunately, for you at least, not everything in this place is extravagant." He took a seat in one of the couches, crossing his legs, taking a deep sip from the glass. A trickle of the white wine escaped his lips and ran down his jaw, landing in small droplets on his obscene shirt. Reaver watched with slight fascination, uncomfortably shifting his weight in the chair, a small blush pressing itself against the apple of his cheeks.

The wine in his glass shook tremulously within, and Reaver, tentatively, raised it to his lips. The only thing he'd ever had that was alcoholic before, was Oakvale's cheap ale and this… this was the most delicious thing he'd ever had. Thirstily, Reaver downed it, reveling in the burning feeling as it crawled down his throat like a bunch of spiders. He blinked once, aware of James' amused gaze on him. Reaver looked down, blinking, his shoes sinking into the red carpet.

"Delicious, isn't it? Cheap, though it may be, it's great for inducing the effects of drunkenness…" James let a lisp touch his voice, and reached into a pocket in his tight trousers. Out, he pulled a long, thin pipe. There was a bulbous end, with a pointed tip. He reached again, pulling out a matchbox.

Reaver licked his lips, reviving the caked dryness there, and looked at the strange apparatus with narrowed eyes as James struck a match and held the lighted end underneath the bulbous part of the pipe. After a few seconds, he waved the match out, flicking it to the ground with little care for where it landed. He presses the tip against his glossed lips, and began to smoke.

"What's that?" Reaver inquired, as James closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Waves of sweet-smelling smoke wafted through the air above him.

"Opium." James rolled his neck, and Reaver set the empty glass down on the ground beside him. "Gets me relaxed. Puts you in a mood, makes you feel… weightless. Like everything you've ever worried about is thrown from your shoulders."

At that, Reaver froze, looking at James with glassy eyes. It made you feel as if your burdens were tossed from you?

"Can it make you…" He licked his lips again, watching the pipe with a hungry expression. "Forget?"

James was smiling at him, looking like the cat that had caught the canary, as if Reaver had walked into a well-planned trap, "That, and so much more…"

He outstretched the pipe, and Reaver, with anxious fingers, snatched it from him. He wanted to forget, to dissolve the memories of Oakvale and to be given a chance to do just that…

Slowly, hesitating for a moment and wondering what the hell he was doing here, accepting drugs from a male prostitute, he pressed the tip to his lips. He looked up, uncertainly, at James, who was leaning his head against his shoulder, long strands of his ginger hair falling into his eyes.

"The first taste is the sweetest," James assured him, his eyes glittering. "That's true for everything…"

Reaver inhaled the opium, and there was a sweet smell that echoed around him, rolling everywhere in waves like a tsunami. He closed his eyes, something invading his senses… it was a pleasure he could not name, something he could not remember…

Ecstasy. It was ecstasy. The pipe twirled between his fingers, Reaver let the feeling grasp him, clutch him, promising him that it wouldn't let go, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He leaned his head forward, desperate for more release… desperate for _more…_

But then the pipe was pulled unexpectedly from his fingers. His brown eyes snapped open, and he looked to James with bewildered eyes, eyes that screamed for need, for release…

"Ah, ah, ah," Tutted James, waving a finger. He smoked a bit of the opiate, looking at Reaver with those infuriating eyes of his. "Can't have more 'till you give me something in return. This stuff is _expensive _after all."

"Anyth-" Reaver stopped himself short, standing up from the chair, patches of color rising to his cheeks. He looked at James, desperate for that sort of pleasure again, for something that could make him _forget. _He didn't want to remember Sibyl, or Ariadne, or Oakvale or… anything. He didn't want to remember that he was once some peasant rolling around the fields, picking flowers for his wife, or that he would have soon had a family had it not been for the cruel sense of fate…

James pressed the tip to his lips, whorls of smoke curling from the pipe, noticing how Reaver watched them with unwavering interest, "And I don't want _gold… _Reaver." He let the man's name roll of his tongue.

Standing up, James put out the pipe, and Reaver let a small whimper escape his lips. James stood at full height, half a head shorter than Reaver himself, and with cold fingers, James traced a line over the mole underneath his eye.

Reaver bit his lip, and then muttered, "We have a deal? Opium… for… for _anything…" _The horrid word came unbidden from his lips, and he watched with frightened interest as James rolled his shirt off of him, revealing a lithe, feminine body underneath.

James looked up at him, his mission done, and whispered, "Welcome to Monsieur Aros' Whorehouse… Reaver the Whore."

And then he pressed his lips to Reaver's.

* * *

**SHIT, that was uncomfortable to write. What's funny, is that this is my favorite chapter so far.**

**I took some creative liberties with Opium smoking, I am 50% sure that I screwed it up a bit. I think you were supposed to light it with opium lamps but seriously, not in the mood to go and make sure this is perfect in every way.**

**Feedback is, as always, highly appreciated!**


	12. Spiral

Modus Vivendi

Part XII: Spiral

"_Depression is rage spread thin."_

_

* * *

_

The whorls of smoke from the opium passed through Reaver's parted lips as he woke up that morning, dark circles under his eyes. His bedfellow beside him stirred, grumbling into the unclean sheets. Reaver cast him a slight glare, rolling his thumb over the gold band on his finger.

"Go smoke that outside." Mumbled James, his grey eyes gleaming like little silver stars underneath the headiness of his ginger bangs. "I supply your damn addiction, but I hate having to smell it _every bloody morning."_

Reaver put out the pipe, flicking it disinterestedly to the ground before laying back on the bed beside his partner in crime. He could hear the clatter of the opium pipe as it rolled across the ground.

"Do be quiet James," He lilted, pulling the ginger towards him. Like a girl, the man giggled, pressing a kiss to the crook of Reaver's neck before biting playfully at the bottom of his ears. "You're _oh-so _pleasant when you shut your mouth."

Three months had passed since Reaver took up the job at Aros' Whorehouse, as an… _escort. _It had been three months since he and James had established a drug connection for opium, which in itself was easy because that was what Aros' smuggling cartel was _for_ after all, and it had been three months since that horrible night in Oakvale.

And it had been too long since Reaver had buried all of his thoughts, his guilt, his regrets, as if it were a skeleton that needed to disappear, forever.

"We can spare twenty minutes before we need to leave…" James offered, kissing a small path down Reaver's bare chest. Reaver, hesitating, let out an annoyed huff before shoving James down on his back, untangling himself from their bed sheets. James sighed, disappointedly, but turned towards the vanity, taking up a small brush, smearing the usual amount of make-up on his face.

With a bit of reverence in his movements, Reaver picked up the opium pipe, and closed his eyes, feeling its curved, soft flimsiness within his palm.

"You were screaming again, last night." James commented, leaning in close to the mirror, brushing green eyeshadow over his lids. "The nightmare?"

Reaver's eyes snapped to James, his inky bangs hanging low in his eyes as he stood, naked, in the man's bedroom. Every night, every night it was the same. That same, horrible nightmare. He could still hear their screams, _her _screams, could still feel the weight of her slap on his face, could still see, clearly, her twisted limbs and matted hair.

"Yes." He replied, curtly, watching James with annoyance dancing in his eyes. Again, he looked down at his pipe. It was the one thing that could allow him to forget, to just be free, like a bird sent flying from its cage. "It was Oakvale. I could see the flames. And then I started running."

It was better, that James did not know of what destroyed Oakvale. It was better that the small town faded into ruin, legend, that it was stripped from people's memories in the coming years. Yes, it was more convenient, this way, for him that they pinned the attack on bandits, Heroes, Balverines, Hollow Men whatever.

"Could you hear your wife?" James, coldly asked, turning around to look at Reaver. The second he turned around, he was met with a slap, and Reaver's wedding ring cut into his cheek. Reaver, coolly looked down at him, uncaring of the blood that seeped from the cut. James laughed, loudly, bringing a sleeve up to his cheek to wipe it away.

"Don't talk about her. I've told you not to." He reminded, reprimanded, ignoring the lowering chuckles of James. Reaver slipped on a pair of trousers, his eyes listlessly cast on the floor and the two went about their daily ablutions. This was a regular occurrence of theirs. Their dysfunctional relationship had been established by James early on, as an attempt to help Reaver… forget, as the latter had so rightly put it. There was profit in it, for both of them. And Reaver had grown colder, more temperamental with every passing day.

There was one rule between them: Don't talk about who Reaver used to be.

And it truly wasn't Reaver's fault, that he had grown so cold, so frigid. All he wanted, all he needed, was to forget. And with the opium, the wine, the using of other people, it was all a downward spiral from there. A downward spiral of addictions, of repression and oppression…

How weak he had been. How weak he _was._

They arrived at Aros' whorehouse, and James took the hands of two delicate, lovely ladies, leading them quietly upstairs, the two giggling quietly to themselves. Reaver had one client today. A woman. He turned to find her, noticing a lone brunette in the opening room of the whorehouse.

Her hair was curled, and she was surprisingly clean for a citizen of Bowerstone. Her limbs were long, as were her fingers, and she gave off the impression of being lanky. Reaver, mustering all the charm he could, his eyes cast in that same, icy way as they always were when he approached the clients, outstretched a long-fingered hand towards the girl.

"Follow me," He said, as her head jerked upwards. Her bangs were cut in a straight line, right above her doe eyes. Her eyes were green, almost the color of Ariadne's own wintergreen but a little darker, a little more sinister. "Miss?"

"Gytha." A strange name, for a strange girl. Fitting.

"Gytha, then." He repeated. Confidently she took his hand, rising to her feet. She was much shorter than he, nearly two heads, but he gave off the impression of being taller than that, with her upturned chin, and dominant movements.

She calmly followed behind him, her boots slapping against the wooden floors as she followed him to a private room, as she requested.

As soon as the door closed behind them, there was the click of a gun being cocked, and the locking of the door, and then,

"Sit down." Gytha asked, her voice dripping with hatred. Reaver, the color draining from his face, raised his hands and sat down, turning around so that he could see her.

It was then, that he recognized her clothes. She was wearing clothes a lady would not normally wear, what with her trousers, and button-up shirt, and there was an emblem emblazoned across one of the pantlegs. It was a symbol of a skull and two katanas, facing inward, reflecting one another. The gun she held in her hands was extravagant. Its butt was gold filigree, and the barrel was the color of fresh blood.

"Who are you?" Reaver asked, forcing his voice down so it sounded remotely calm. "Wicker's men, I suppose." He could think of no other group of pirates that he'd heard of in Bloodstone. At least none that would have any reason to hold him at gunpoint.

"His First Mate." She brushed away her long bangs, green eyes hardening into chips of ice. "Which isn't important. You're being held at gunpoint. You've got something I want. I have something you need."

Reaver swallowed the knot in his throat, "Need…?"

Gytha brandished her pistol, and Reaver was again, mesmerized by its beauty, and then she said, "Your life, obviously."

"Oh." Reaver sank into the cushions of the couch. Inside, however, he chuckled. He was immortal. Stupid woman. "And… you want…?" He licked his lips, watching Gytha through strands of his inky hair.

"Information." She pointed the gun at him again, walking towards him. She knelt down, and prodded his chin with her gun, lifting it upwards, forcing him to look into her eyes. "Aros' been two-timin' Wicker. Running a deal on the side. You've got access to Aros' study."

"Indeed, I do." Reaver spouted, his eyes wavered on the ornate gun.

"Then you will do exactly what I say," Gytha said, shifting his head upwards. "And if you don't do exactly what I say… I won't hesitate to blow off your pretty little head."

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	13. Gunpowder

Modus Vivendi

Part XIII: Gunpowder

"_Depression is rage spread thin."_

_

* * *

_

Outside of the door to Aros' office, Reaver worked the lock meticulously, as carefully as one could with a gun pressed to the back of their head.

The bobby pin held delicately between his fingers had come from Gytha's own hair, and the instructions on how to pick locks was given to him without guarantee of a repeat. For some reason, though he knew he had nothing to fear, he felt as though his life was hanging capriciously in the balance, like a tightrope walker who'd been given a five minute crash course in tightrope walking.

"That gun of yours…" He tried to start up a conversation with the girl. And the gun she wielded, it was beautiful in every shape and form. "What type is it? I've never seen one like it before."

"Dragonstomper .48." Was her cold reply. Gytha sounded as though she would prefer nothing more than to not talk to the man. "There are only six of them n' the entire world." She shoved the barrel of the gun sharply into the back of his head, as if he should consider it an honor to be held hostage by such a rare antiquity.

Reaver stiffened a little, his fingers trembling as the bobby pin caught in the tumbler. There was the click of the lock, and Gytha grunted, "Open it."

Everything in his body shook, his stomach twisted darkly as he pushed open the well-worn door of Aros' office. The inside of Monsieur Aros' office was extravagant; though the man himself was repugnant, disgusting and his fashion horrid, he had excellent taste in decorations, and whores.

A thick oak desk was situated in the center of the room, in front of a large, dirty window. Dying plants, though the vases they were in were quite exotic, were placed in corners of the room. A rug, stitched with intricate sanguine and black diamond designs, covered up stains on the wooden floors.

"Where are his papers?" Gytha questioned, she urged him forward with the barrel of her gun. Reaver, who quite honestly did not know where Aros kept his records of the smuggling cartel's transactions, felt a small shiver crawl down his spine. Gytha moved quickly from behind him, placing the gun on a corner of the desk as she opened the drawers, throwing papers around. A canteen of ale was thrown to the ground, where it landed with a resounding thud, but Reaver did not jump at the sound. His eyes were drawn to the Dragonstomper .48, the beautiful, mesmerizing gun.

Gytha, absorbed in finding the papers, did not notice Reaver retrieve her gun from the corner of Aros' desk. Reaver held the pistol in his hands, and there was something in him that was _stirred. _It was a feeling he had not felt since the death of Sibyl, a feeling that swirled viciously inside of him. The pistol felt heavy in his hands, like an iron ball.

Without thinking, he lifted the pistol and aimed at Gytha's unsuspecting little head.

And he shot.

There's a split-second before the bullet enters her skull that her head jerks upward. The expression that crossed her face is one that realizes her own obfuscating stupidity, but her body slinks to the floor. The sound of the Dragonstomper .48 was loud, horrible, and yet lovely in its own, twisted little way. Gytha grabbed for the corner of the desk, a blood smear left behind as she crashed to the floor, a lifeless husk.

Reaver stood there for a second. Part of him was aghast at what he'd just done – he'd _murdered _someone – but something grew inside of him, like a twining weed, that reveled in the blood that seeped the soles of his shoes. He stared at Gytha's dead body, admired the curves of her pretty face, the dimness of her green eyes.

Then it hit him.

He had killed Wicker's First Mate.

Such an act would have repercussions, certainly, and he was holding a literal smoking gun, evidence of what he'd done. But… he couldn't dispose of it! Nor could he move the body without being seen…

Reaver leaned down, refusing to let go of the gun in his hand. Adrenaline ran through his body, pumped through him, pulsing all over. There was something decadent in looking at Gytha, something as deplorable as the partying, the smoking, the drinking, the whoring. For a second, he felt proud of himself.

_He _had killed a pirate. A member of Wicker's infamous crew.

The door burst open and Reaver scrambled to his feet, pointing the gun at whomever had entered the office.

James stood there, gasping, his make-up slightly smeared on his face. His stormy eyes had landed first on the gun, and then flicked to Reaver, before moving to see Gytha's partial body. The corners of James' lips twitched.

And then, _"Damn." _

The sound was drawn out, the word slung with all sorts of stresses. James, in an almost frenzied state of panic, slammed the door behind him and moved, ran really, to bend at Gytha's side. His fingers took in her wrist, and James did all of this in an almost cold, clinical and precise way.

"She's dead," He announced, his eyes settled on the giant bleeding hole between her eyes. _"Damn. _Damn. You killed her, didn't you?" The words came out in a quick, panicky tumble. He didn't seem too concerned for the actual girl.

"I…" Reaver started, the adrenaline drained from him. He felt woozy, as though someone had kicked him in the stomach and knocked the air out of him. Gytha's pistol, her Dragonstomper .48, fell from his fingers to land at a thud against the floor beside him. Looking down at the dead body, his brown eyes glimmered. "Yes… I… she was one of Wicker's… wanted to blackmail… Aros…"

"For the smuggling cartel." James stood, and upon hearing that Gytha was a member of Wicker's crew, spat on her body. The action seemed entirely inappropriate. "Tch, good riddance. Those bastards pillage every corner they can get their hands on, here in Bloodstone. I'd piss on her if I could. But the need hasn't exactly called yet."

At this, he gave Reaver a wry grin.

"How can you…" Reaver began, but he closed his mouth, bending down to pick the Dragonstomper .48 up off the floor.

James began to lift Gytha's body, grimacing as her blood soaked the sleeves of his shirt, he looked at Reaver as he spoke,

"We need to get rid of the body, before Wicker finds out who killed her. He'll be raving mad if he finds out. Could go after you," James batted his eyelashes at Reaver, holding up Gytha's tiny, broken body. "And I certainly don't want that."

"That's impossible," Reaver argued, angry. The adrenaline from killing Gytha, the surge of revelry he had felt after doing the deed came back into him. There was that stirring within him again. "If we go out of here with a dead body—"

"There are tunnels underneath the brothel." James explained, nodding at him. "We can use those to get rid of her. They lead to a shoreline, and we can just… dump her body into the ocean. A watery grave for a pirate. Poetic, isn't it?"

Reaver said nothing, only took Gytha's legs and helped James lift her.

He wasn't sure what had just occurred.

But even he could not have imagined the consequences.

**

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**

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	14. Edge

Modus Vivendi

Part XIV: Edge

"_Depression is rage spread thin."_

* * *

The rear passage out of the whorehouse was a labyrinth of several bridges, caverns, caves and smelled of rotting fish. Though it could have been the body that Reaver and James were carrying, but that was a simple guess. Despite what had just occurred, despite the fact that Reaver had acted on impulse and _murdered _someone, the two spoke of nothing.

In fact, James was humming a jaunty tune to himself, and had groped at Gytha's butt quite a few times during the trip through the smuggler's passage. An act which was quite disgusting to behold. Reaver tried to ignored the coldness of Gytha's skin, the smacking of his newfound Dragonstomper .48 against his thigh, and the sudden, terrible thrill he got from killing the girl.

After what seemed like an hour of traversing the smuggler's tunnels, and going through caves which all appeared the same in likeness, Reaver and James were met with a blinding shock of sunlight. It was so shocking that Reaver had to cover his temporarily blinded eyes with the crook of his arm, almost losing his grip on Gytha's body.

Above, seagulls circled overhead in tandem, cawing belatedly, their wings flapping soundlessly through the salty ocean sky. It was as though they were sentinels in the sky, the guardians of some divine, unreachable treasure.

The tide of the sea swept back and forth over glittering grains of sand like a great blue tongue, over and over, producing a lovely, passive sound that seemed so out of place here.

The only words Reaver could produce, awestruck by the sudden beauty of the ocean and all its tangible forms were; "It's… a cove."

His eyes raked over the cove covetously, taking note of the small hill carved into the precipice of the mountains and the rotting, peeling wood of an unoccupied dock.

"Smuggler's Cove," James called it, grinning like a madman. "Beautiful isn't it? Like a dancer. They smuggle everything through here. Opium, jewels, _people… _everything not regulated by the mayorship of Bowerstone."

Reaver heaved Gytha's feather light body, getting a new grip on her legs and James chortled darkly, gesturing towards the dock with a sideways nod of his head. The two carried the lifeless, bloated body of Wicker's First Mate to the edge of the dock, those wood panels creaking with each step.

When they stood at the edge of the rickety dock, their reflections distorted in the warp of the ocean, Reaver let out his pent up breath, swallowing the knot that had been tied in his throat. His arms and legs, and everything really, ached and he felt as though everything was coming to a standstill.

Or at least, he had hoped.

But hope was fleeting.

James' fingers dug into the grooves of Gytha's ankles and Reaver was trembling as he held the pirate's arms within his hands. They set Gytha's body down on the edge of the dock, and her body was splayed across the wood. A lone fly settled itself on her crusting skull, and those beautiful green eyes of hers were glassy, like the chips of a broken bottle of spirits.

Something danced in Reaver's heart, like a war drum. The beating of a butterfly's wings.

James bent down beside Gytha's body, and removed the rope of twine that had been strapped to the belt of his trousers, and grunted to Reaver that the man needed to gather heavy rocks.

As he gathered up the rocks, it occurred to Reaver, finally, like a big heavy weight upon his shoulders, that he was doing this all with a sort of cold indifference. It was clinical, truly, the way he picked up each and every rock, turning the polished stone over and over in his palm like a poisoned dagger, gathering up a pile of heavy rocks to weigh down Gytha's body.

But still, despite the turmoil, the disgust at what he had done, his heart was dancing.

When he found a good number of heavy rocks, he carried the pile over to James, and the two set up tying cut pieces of rope to Gytha, twisting weights around tied arms and legs, stuffing smaller rocks into pockets and ample cleavage, and finally, when their work was done, the two men stood up and admired their work.

Or at least, James admired. Reaver quavered as though he stood on the precipice of change. As though he were about to leap over the edge of a cliff and fly.

Finally, James motioned for Reaver to take the legs and he the arms, and the two held Gytha's body with an almost quiet, frightening silence between them. Slowly, achingly slowly, the swung the body to one side and then the other, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

And then they let go.

Her body flew through the air, like a seagull, for only a slight second, and then Gytha dropped like a stone, falling into the water with a final, ringing _splash. _Droplets, rivulets of water flew through the air, and Reaver could taste sea salt on the edge of his tongue.

James and Reaver watched, with wide, frightened eyes as the body sank, head lolling, to the seafloor. A very pregnant silence passed between the two vagabonds, and the world seemed to once again sink into that strange quiescence.

The silence was broken finally by James' cackling, the crowing of circling seagulls, and the passing of the tide.

* * *

They returned to the bordello, and no one suspected a single thing. Aros had returned to his office while they were away, blissfully unaware of the violence that had occurred within his office.

Reaver and James retreated to the sanctuary of a private room, and James delegated to himself the duty of helping Reaver get the murder off his mind.

Reaver lifted the opium pipe to his lips, while James busied himself with a certain erogenous zone between Reaver's thighs. The man tangled one hand in the long shock of ginger hair, tongue flicking over the numbing edge of the opium pipe.

He quavered, let out a sharp groan when James pulled back, buttoning his pants for him. The groan became a choked, strangled gasp when the naked man straddled him, lacing fingers around the back of his neck.

James cradled Reaver's cheeks and the opium pipe fell to the ground beside the chair Reaver sat in, falling to the ground with a loud, resounding clatter.

Those stormy gray eyes swirled with mirth when James grinded his hips forward.

"_Don't." _Reaver gasped, lips parting, eyes rolling. James used the opening as an opportunity, snatching up the dark-haired man's face and pulling him forward, capturing silky smooth lips. The sheer urgency of the kiss, the control exhibited in it, should have set off alarms in Reaver's head. But Reaver melted into it, tilting his head and losing strands of whatever control he had over the situation, over thoughts and feelings.

Reaver pulled away the moment James' fingers trailed down his chest, long pianist's fingers that could have played him like a harp.

Reaver snatched up James' wrists, holding them tightly and brusquely pulling away from the kiss with a wicked, wet plop. Those dark brown eyes of Reaver's were trained on the swell of an adam's apple on James' throat. Purposefully, he averted the stormy gaze on him.

"I killed someone." Was all he could say.

James growled, perfectly annoyed, "So what?" His hips gyrated. "We all kill people. You're not so special."

Reaver's lips, all thoughts of self-control completely gone and the dance in his heart more vigorous than ever, leaned forward and capture that adam's apple. His tongue flicked over the sensitive expanse of skin there, eliciting a praiseful moan in response. James' lips were right by his ear, and those pianist's fingers were kneaded in his shoulders.

And then; "I want to tell you about the pursuit of _hedonism…"_

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	15. Descent

Modus Vivendi

Part XV: Descent

"_Depression is rage spread thin…"_

* * *

The week that followed their dumping of the pirate's body was one filled with atrocities of different kinds. Reaver's nightmares haunted him always, he could see _her, _for he dared not refer to Sibyl by her name, and Gytha and all those he had used and discarded. James, that lovely lad, had taken it upon himself to introduce Reaver to the hedonistic facets of life within Bloodstone.

They followed by Aros' rules, of course, coloring outside the lines within Bloodstone would get them both killed, but whenever they were free from their bonds to the whorehouse they traipsed the town looking for skirts, wines, opium and fights. Oh, how they had searched for fights.

The other night brought Reaver quite a thrill. He and James had seduced a relatively rich and quite voluptuous young woman with the most alluring eyes when her boorish husband arose from whatever hole he'd crawled himself into, cursing their names and shattering an empty wine bottle against the edge of the bar.

When the man lunged at Reaver, Reaver had finally gotten the chance to use the Dragonstomper .48 that he had robbed from Gytha's corpse. The man fell to the ground and all those that had been watching the spectacle turned right back to their drinks.

There was only one law in the lawless town of Bloodstone: Self-Defense.

People did not appreciate murder, but they had nary a care though the sudden disappearance of Gytha had stirred up an almost unbearable frenzy within Bloodstone. They whispered little titterings of Wicker's anger, and the murder was nicely covered up. Everyone believed Gytha had made a run for it.

Reaver and James were quite thankful of this. For the first three days they had drunken themselves into stupors, attempted to appease their nervousness with opium, sex and cheap liquors. It had worked, but Reaver was not very appreciative of the fact that his heart hammered and palms sweated whenever someone's gaze lingered on him for too long.

Considering the beauty he carried with him, people often let their gazes linger on him for too long.

One of the things Reaver had taken to doing was daring to step outside the boundaries of Bloodstone. He tried very hard not to think of anything to do with _that place _or _her _but his own curiosity, and really his own guilt implored him brief return.

He stayed on the borderline between Bloodstone and the wasteland people in town now referred to as the _Wraithmarsh. _Reaver could make out only ghoulish specters in the distance, twisted shapes of burned houses and gnarled trees. When he heard whispers in the shell of his ears he trembled and returned, in a staggering sprint, back to Bloodstone.

Reaver swore he would never return to the place fully. It was a place of memories, of Ariadne, of Sibyl, of Brenton and all those that lived within the place. They were the memories of a man he no longer knew, of a man most certainly not him.

Another activity that he had recently taken up, was the lure of shooting. There was something in the kickback of a gun, of the ringing sound within his ears that made the blood in his veins arc and his body shake with rapture.

He wanted to feel the thrill he had felt upon killing Gytha, the thrill upon throwing her body into the ocean and watching it sink. He reveled in gunmetal, in the knowledge that his gun brought him something more fulfilling than anything James could provide.

However, when the week neared its end, Reaver and James found their complacent lives pulled abruptly to a brisk halt.

Strands of light filtered in through the veil of the threadbare curtains and Reaver disentangled himself from a blond woman whose name he had forgotten, her husband, the husband's estranged female cousin, and James.

James let out a collective groan, and Reaver pulled away the curtains, revealing the city of Bloodstone and all its disgusting habitants. Reaver's fingers lingered on the openings of the door, as though he thought about opening it and exposing himself to the filthy, salt-filled air but seemed to think better of it and turned to slip on his tattered trousers.

His first thought that morning had been, _"Perhaps I should steal nicer clothes then these pitiful rags."_

Unfortunately it was not to be so as all the disgusting habitants of Bloodstone wore the same pitiful rags. It was not a very economically fulfilled place, due to the unfortunate fact that half its villagers were pilfering, pirating, drunken, whorish fools.

Reaver slipped on an equally tattered shirt, looked back at the heaving, occupied bed and contemplated just going back to sleep. It was an indolent thought, and Reaver decided against the thought and headed outside, his trusty and pilfered Dragonstomper .48 strapped loyally to his hip.

He traipsed about the town, hands in his pockets, ignoring the wolf-whistles and propositions that were sent his way, and attempted to enjoy a rather leisurely stroll about Bloodstone. Leisurely, and Bloodstone, were both strange words to string together in a sentence, but it had been what he was doing.

The man knew nothing of what had washed up ashore on the beaches of Bloodstone that morning.

"A body!" There was a man running through the city, and he bumped into Reaver, nearly knocking him over. Reaver's hands went immediately to his coinpurse and upon realizing it was still there they went to the Dragonstomper .48.

However; "Someone found a dead body by the docks!"

Reaver's heart hammered. Perspiration gathered on his forehead, and there seemed to be a wave of people heading towards the docks, to see this body. Reaver, with growing trepidation, followed with the crowd, hoping that his blanched face would go unnoticed by the people. When he got to the docks, he saw a man bent over a rather desiccated corpse.

It was the corpse of a girl, with brown, matted hair. The man bent over her wrinkled his nose and stood.

This man was the Pirate King known as Wicker.

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	16. Dragon

Modus Vivendi

Part XVI: Dragon

"_Depression is rage spread thin…"_

* * *

Wicker was what one would describe as a giant of a man. With broad shoulders and a height that towered above nearly everyone, he gave off an almost standoffish appearance. He was, in countenance, ugly. The Pirate King's nose was crooked and hooked, and appeared as though it had been broken at least thrice.

Wicker's thin, pale lips were buried in a ragged beard that was sandy, as was his long, dreadlocked hair. His eyes, which were a beady brown, looked like black beetles in his pinched, slanted eyes.

The man was visibly angry, his wrinkled skin a beet red, and he roared, "Someone has killed my First Mate. Dumped her body into the blasted ocean!"

Reaver, concealed within the throngs of the crowd, felt his hand go instinctively to the familiar butt of the Dragonstomper .48. Wicker's eyes seemed to scan the crowd and it was obvious that all of them were incredibly frightened of this man. The woman next to Reaver began to tremble, hands shaking and blue eyes wide with fear as she looked upon Wicker.

A stout little man, just as ugly as Wicker, moved through the crowd, pushing them aside. It was Aros.

"Now, now, Wicker no need to get hasty." Beads of perspiration were gathering on his balding head. Wicker's head snapped to the side, his lip curled, revealing rotting teeth. "Perhaps… perhaps it was an accident? Avo knows the girl couldn't swim…"

"There's a hole in her head!" Yelled a man in the crowd.

Wicker's head snapped again, to look at the man and a gun almost as majestic as the Dragonstomper .48 was whipped from Wicker's belt. He shot, and the man who'd dared to speak slumped to the ground. A few people screamed, including the trembling woman next to Reaver. Reaver looked up at the gun, and the lettering splayed across it.

The _Red Dragon, _it was called. Reaver's fingers itched to pull the Dragonstomper .48 from its holster, and he rubbed at his eyes.

Aros continued to blather, taking a royal blue handkerchief from his pockets, "I-I-I can't imagine anyone would dare cross you, Wicker. T-Think about it for a m-m-m-moment." He dabbed at the perspiration gathered on his crown. "Who… Who would dare kill the First Mate of a P-P-Pirate K-King?"

A pregnant silence passed between the two partners. It was broken by the baring of Wicker's rotting teeth, and the tightened hold he had on his pistol. Smoke, whorls of it, rose in the air. A woman moved to weep over the man's dead body, holding him in her arms. She dared not attack the Pirate King.

No one made a move, but they all stood with bated breath.

Aros' challenge hung in the air, and Reaver subconsciously lowered his head, looking up at the scene from behind heavily-lidded eyes. His fingers stroked the edges of his pistol, in the way one would pet a cat.

_Who would dare kill the First Mate of a Pirate King?_

"A fool." Wicker answered. "A damn good shot. And a thief as well."

Reaver froze in the crowd, his breath caught in his throat and for a moment he forgot all the necessities of life. He forgot how to breathe and blink and move and _run._

Aros gave Wicker a confused look, "A thief? What did this… this… _fool _steal?"

Wicker's lips twitched, his hooked nose wrinkled in disgust and he bent over Gytha's body. The Pirate King seemed to stop as he looked at her desiccated face, and then touched the edges of it with tentative fingers, almost softly, in a sort of caress that seemed entirely macabre. He didn't turn to Aros when he said,

"Her pistol is gone. The Dragonstomper." His beady little eyes glinted with something incredibly vicious. "_Stolen."_

"T-T-The Dragonstomper?" Aros inquired; he was sweating like mad now, eyes bulging so much they looked as though they'd pop right out of his skull.

Reaver stepped back now, the motions coming back to him, fear following him like a little puppy. He pushed past the crowd behind him, his skin blanched and pale like washed out paper. Behind him there was only the murmuring of the crowd and the arguing of Wicker and Aros over the death of Gytha. He walked away from the crowd, turned a corner and sprinted back to his and James' home.

He did not dare look back to see if anyone had noticed him running from the scene.

When he arrived at James' little shack, he threw open the door and slammed it shut behind him, collapsing on the ground right in front of the door. Reaver brought his knees up to his chest and for the first time since he'd began his sprinting, _breathed. _In, out, in, out. The breaths came in gasping clumps of air.

They were going to find the pistol, he knew it. That meant more trouble than it was worth.

Reaver closed his eyes, held his head in his hands and chewed on his bottom lip. What could he do? What could he possibly _do? _There wasn't anything he could do! He could not go and face Wicker! He could not face a Pirate King!

He stood up, too quickly, stumbling and backing up against the closed door. His thoughts buzzed about his head, flitting quickly, much too quickly, for him to focus on _what could he possibly do?_

The answer, the thought, passed by in a mental shock – James. James could help him figure something out.

Reaver opened the bedroom door. Their bedfellows from the previous night had left, shooed out by James, and the redhead himself stood in front of the vanity, applying black to the edges of his eyes, and pressing powder to his cheeks. His head snapped to the side, bangs flying, when Reaver entered the bedroom.

The brush in his hand clattered to the floor when he saw the look in Reaver's eyes, the look of a caged, deranged animal, or a man trapped within a crate with no hope of escape.

"They found the pirate woman's body." Was all Reaver said.

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	17. Waylaid

Modus Vivendi

Part XVII: Waylaid

"_Depression is rage spread thin…"_

* * *

James stared at Reaver. At first, it seemed as though the information hadn't quite reached him yet, but then, slowly, terrifyingly so, James' eyes widened, more and more, until they seemed to be the size of the moon.

"No." James started, the word was quiet, slow. "N-no, we… we have to get out of here. Do _something." _His words were quick in succession, a steady staccato beat. Reaver clutched the Dragonstomper .48 with wickedly thin fingers, and pressed the golden band to his lips. The words _Always Faithful _mocked him when his dark eyes flickered downwards to look at them.

"We can't just—" Reaver began, but his words were cut off by the loud banging of someone at their door.

James and Reaver stood there, aghast, and watched as pirates kicked open the door to James' hovel, knocking it off its hinges, sending splinters of pine everywhere. Soon, their house was filled with several grotesquely twisted men, with missing teeth and filmed eyes, and at the head of them, was Wicker.

Wicker was in the house.

_Wicker was in their house._

"Search everything." He commanded, to his men. They looked at him with as much respect as fear. "If they interfere, kill them."

James and Reaver were rooted to the spot, and immediately Reaver felt his hand go to the Dragonstomper, which the group was looking for. He stood there, frozen, looking up at Wicker as the man watched his grunts knock over wardrobes and rip open drawers, making no secret of the fact that they were putting anything valuable into their pockets. That was how these pirates were. They sought to pillage, to take and take until Bloodstone was bled dry.

Perhaps they would rename it Bledstone then? Ah, a terrible joke.

"Nothin' 'ere, sir!" Said one of the grunts. A necklace, a gift from one of James' clients, was dangling clearly from his jacket pocket. "I say we oughta' move on to the nex' 'ouse." His words were clipped and foreign, and he was missing a few teeth.

"Wait!" Reaver was enraged, his eyes were fixed on the necklace dangling from the pocket. "You can't do this! This is _ours, _Avo damn it!" His hands had moved from the pistol, and Wicker caught sight of it.

"I assume my first mate's Dragonstomper is _yours _as well?" Wicker demanded and Reaver stood there, aghast. Though Wicker did take the necklace from the grunt and flung it at James, where it hit the man in the face before falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

"I rightfully stole it." Reaver's hand went immediately to the pistol. "So, _yes _it's mine!" His heart thrummed wildly, beating so hard it threatened to beat right out of his chest.

James intercepted, moving to stand in front of Reaver, hands held in front of him, and quickly he began, "Please, Monseiur Wicker, surely there are more guns like that than just—"

Wicker, as quickly as was possible, in the blink of an eye, pulled out his gun, pointed it at James and shot. Reaver stood, frozen, watching as James stiffened and fell to the side with a thud. He looked at the ginger-haired man as he fell to the ground, watched as blood pooled all around, a bright red in contrast to the drab carpeting of their home.

Reaver looked from the body to Wicker, and the Pirate King was watching him with narrowed, watery eyes.

"You killed him." Reaver stated. Wicker's compatriots sniggered.

"He was in my way." Wicker replied. He cocked the gun again, pointed it at Reaver. "As are you."

* * *

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	18. Ascension

Modus Vivendi

Part XVIII: Ascension

"_Depression is rage spread thin…"_

* * *

People say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. And as for Reaver, staring down the barrel of Wicker's Red Dragon, he saw nothing. Nothing but the instrument that could – _would, probably, for one has to be realistic – _end his life. Nothing but Wicker's beady, watery little eyes.

And he heard nothing but the sound of the Red Dragon firing. Felt nothing but his body falling to the ground. Blood trickled from the hole in his forehead, and Reaver saw the room spinning. He closed his eyes. But nothing happened.

He did not die. Reaver lay there, bleeding, with Wicker standing above him, admiring his handiwork. The Pirate King moved closer, looming above Reaver, reaching down to unbuckle the holster of the Dragonstomper.

Reaver was quick. His hands went deftly to the gun as he lay on the ground, and his eyes snapped open, glittering like stars in the dark. Wicker gasped, terrified, and stepped back. But Reaver was quicker, faster, more agile than him. Reaver aimed, looking down the barrel of the Dragonstomper and shot.

Once, twice, a third time.

The first bullet caught Wicker right between the eyes, the second hit the navel and the third one of the shoulders. Wicker's body spun in the air, like a ragdoll pulled by strings, and fell to the ground with a great, deafening thud. Reaver sat there, eyes wide, breath catching as he stood unsteadily on his feet. He looked upon James, who lay there next to Wicker, silent and dead, and then upon Wicker again. Unlike Reaver, he did not rise.

Wicker's goons, who had said nothing nor done nothing during this exchange, watched Reaver with narrowed eyes.

The goons moved slowly, carefully towards Reaver as though he were a bird prepared to give flight. He lifted his gun, brandished it, waiting, steeling himself as the two circled him. One of the goons hooked a toed boot and flipped over Wicker's body.

"'ead." He said. "'eader than 'ead."

"Y'know what that means, don'tcha, nonny?" The other asked Reaver, smiling a toothless smile. Reaver held his gun higher, in an attempt to seem more threatening.

"Back off." Reaver grunted, eyes glimmering. "Or I'll shoot."

The toothless man sneered, "It means _you're _the new Pirate King."

Reaver froze, and stared at the man, all wide brown eyes and taut lips. Something vain and proud and powerful began to bloom in the pit of his stomach, like roses on the verge of spring. The man that had hooked his boot into Wicker stood and grabbed one of Reaver's arms, and the toothless one grabbed the other arm.

They led the man out of the house, past James and Wicker's body, and into the middle of Bloodstone. There was still a crowd there, woman wringing hands into their clothes, and men fidgeting nervously as the pirates watched them all carefully with darting eyes.

The two men that held his arms thrust him forward. And then they spoke, explaining that he had killed Wicker, that it was he who was, by all rights, the Pirate King. Reaver stood there, frozen like a statue, watching as the people looked at him with fear stricken on their faces. And then he reveled in it. Something within him, deep, deep, deep within, began to grow, blossoming. He shot one of the men beside him, watched as his audience tensed up and gasped.

His new crew said nothing. They watched him as though he hadn't done a single thing.

"Aros," He was brusque. The fat, balding man ambled forward from the crowd. "I do believe you shared the whorehouse with Wicker, no?"

Reaver remembered James saying that once. Avo spit on James.

Aros dapped his sweating forehead with his handkerchief nervously, and stuttered, "Y-Y-Yes, indeed but surely—"

Reaver shot him, too.

The crowd gasped, but no one dared to run.

"And now the whorehouse is all mine." Reaver announced, sneering. He turned to the living goon. "Clean up this mess."

The goon grinned, and did as he asked, gesturing for others of Wicker's crew to help. They cleaned up the bodies, and Reaver faced his people.

He was a King, now.

And they were his unwilling subjects.

* * *

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	19. Transition

Modus Vivendi

Part XIX: Transition

"_Depression is rage spread thin…"_

* * *

Many years passed. They were a blur, for him. A blur of nothing but debauchery. A filling of a hole that had long since taken residence within the middle of his heart. He deigned to forget. Needed it like one needed opium. Reaver wished to forget everything. Sibyl, Ariadne, James, Oakvale, the world and the people in it.

But he was the Pirate King. He could not forget that. Reaver wore the fact proudly, dressing in the finest silks, silks of red and gold, waving the fact that he was above the unwritten laws of Bloodstone in people's faces by killing all those that had dared slight him. He was no longer Reaver the Whore.

He was just Reaver. The King of Thieves. The Pirate King.

And everyone in Bloodstone feared him. When travelers dared brave the edges of Wraithmarsh, traveling to their lawless town, the townspeople, the pirates, warned travelers of them.

They would point to the large mansion on the hill, the former whorehouse, turned into a mansion for Reaver's amusement, and whisper, _"Whatever yeh do, lady/sir, ne'er go tha' place. Place o' evil, it is. We fear the man 'ore 'an we fear anythin' else, we do. He's a monster. A demon 'n disguise."_

Still, they crawled to his bed, for he was an insatiable man. Of insatiable appetites.

Sometimes, he would leave on expeditions with the rest of the pirates, and during those long stretches of time, the people would attempt rebellion, to get rid of him. They would wait on the edges of the docks for him, guns in hand.

They never succeeded, and the bodies were always dumped into the ocean. Much like Gytha's. They would often wash up on the shoreline, rotting, mouths open in frightened gapes.

Other times, he would disappear into Wraithmarsh, with a single person in tow. That single person would often hold a piece of dark metal, and Reaver would return in a few days.

But he would return alone. The person that went with him would never be seen again.

Rumors circulated of course, especially when the years passed and Reaver showed no sign of age. _He's immortal, _they would whisper sometimes, _he will live forever and we can't do anything about it._

Bloodstone was a hopeless town. With no economy, no semblance of law, and no true way to enjoy life. The taverns were often filled with people who just wanted to forget, drinking away their few coins. There was nothing, anymore.

They feared Reaver, but they could never escape him. The only way out was Wraithmarsh, or over the seas. And of course, they couldn't afford a ship to take them away. Some people tried to leave through Wraithmarsh. Whether they succeeded or not was a complete mystery, but they were often not seen in Bloodstone ever again.

One year, a blind woman had found her way into Bloodstone, had looked up at the mansion and stood there for a few minutes. And, as quickly as she had come, she had left, smiling to herself, before disappearing in a blast of silver light.

For Reaver, the fifty years that had passed, had passed without event. He still had the nightmares, and would often awake in a cold sweat, tangled in sheets and limbs, and would return to his study for respite. He brooded often, when alone.

He wrote often, too.

"_I am filled with a wonderful weariness tonight. My bedroom is far too crowded to get a good night's sleep and I'm too indolent to eject any of my lovely guests. Instead, I thought I would sit in my study sipping a restorative beverage, enjoying my own company."_

Sometimes he would think of Sibyl. Of those tender lips, those freckles, that fair skin and golden hair. His heart would ache, and he throw the thought viciously from his mind. His daughter, their daughter, would have been very old by now. She would have had his brown eyes and Sibyl's beautiful hair, would have danced around men—

Reaver did not want to think of them. He grabbed a maid he'd been passing roughly by the shoulders and into the bedroom, throwing her onto the bed where she squealed with delight.

There was nothing there, anymore. And the man that had lived in Oakvale was long dead, a ghost within Wraithmarsh. Reaver had risen from his ashes.

So, fifty years passed, without anything truly eventful.

Until Reaver heard of Aurora.

* * *

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	20. Souls

Modus Vivendi

Part XX: Souls

"_When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."_

* * *

The wedding band fell into the ocean.

A spray of sea shot upwards, and the man who stood on the pier watched it as it slowly sank. It disappeared, in a glint of gold, and the man who had once held the golden bit of metal so close to him did nothing to salvage it from the waters. When he was sure that the sea had swallowed it whole, it and its mocking words, _Always Faithful, _he turned on his heel and faced the yawning mouth of the cave.

This place was where it had all started, Reaver supposed, frowning. He didn't like to frown because it caused wrinkles, though he knew better than anyone that he had nothing to fear. He'd been feeding the Shadow Court souls every year, and it'd been a shock to see the Dark Seal appear at his door one morning.

He'd known instinctively, what he had to do. Reaver wondered if that was an aftereffect of the time in… that place. But alas, he cared not.

Around him, in Smuggler's Cove, the seagulls cawed restlessly and birds shifted, eyes fixed on Reaver as though he were about to shoot them. If they got too loud, certainly, he would. But he was brooding. He'd been doing that a lot, lately. Perhaps living was finally beginning to get to him.

But he still feared death with just as much vigor as he had fifty years ago. He knew the fragility of life, how easily it could be snuffed out. Death repelled him, but it loomed constantly over him. He could not die, bullets and swords did nothing but annoy him. And he knew this because a great deal of people had attempted to kill him. Pirates, miscreants, people so frightened they would have done anything, anything at all to see him dead.

Reaver looked back at the pier, his eyes darting across the edges of the endless ocean. He was becoming a tad stir-crazy in Bloodstone, though it had only been a few months since the last voyage. They'd gone to the Northern Wastes, and had returned with women, wine, and handfuls of gold. Of course, in the end, he had to toss all non-essential crew members over the edge of the ocean, including three of the women that he'd taken as his 'brides'. Ah, such foolish idiots. He'd used them and thrown them away as though they were nothing.

The Pirate King turned and entered the cave, moving deftly through the labyrinth of tunnels. He knew the way by heart now, for the cove was the only place he could be alone. With his thoughts. But now, now that he'd thrown that wretched piece of gold into the ocean, he doubted he would ever return to those shores again. He had turned his back, not only on the sea, but on Sibyl as well. He would not forget her, of course.

But it did him no good to dwell on the past. That, now, was only for the nights, when she haunted his sleep and plagued the edges of his mind, like a festering wound that could not – would not, perhaps – be assuaged.

When he returned to the manor (the whorehouse was long gone, now, and it was his home) he sat in front of the fireplace, smoking opium and sipping wine. He had taken the day to be indolent, too lazy and forlorn to engage in his usual mongering. The clock had just struck noon, when a servant of his arrived.

"R-Reaver?" The girl was very soft-spoken. "This… this was left on your doorstep."

He didn't need to turn around to know what it was.

Reaver yawned, waving a hand indolently, "Put it on that table there, will you?"

There was the clinking of very heavy metal, and before the servant could leave, Reaver spoke up,

"You, wait." He stood and turned to face the girl, a glass of wine still held in one hand. The girl looked up, frightened. She had very beautiful eyes.

"Y-Yes, R-Reaver?" She was flushing a very ugly red, hands wringing in her ragged clothes.

Reaver stepped forward, taking a sip from the glass of wine. He circled around her, like a vulture, and suddenly stopped, taking her chin in the free hand.

"Such a lovely girl," He said, and his breath smelled of wine. Reaver didn't even glance at the Dark Seal. "Would you like to come with me to Bowerstone? I could use… the company."

He put an emphasis on the last word, to stretch his meaning across her. She was blushing deeply, her deep hazel eyes wandering.

"I… I… if that is what you w-w-wish." She squeezed those eyes of hers shut.

Reaver pressed his lips to hers, and she let out a startled squeal, which turned into a yelp when Reaver threw the wine glass to the ground and took her by the wrists, slamming her body into the wall. A few books fell to the ground, and Reaver, just as he had used previous sacrifices, used her.

He told her, when they were sprawled naked in the sitting room, in a breathy rasp, that they would be heading through Wraithmarsh.

* * *

"R-Reaver," The girl, whose name he'd already forgotten, (He thought it was Adele, but it could have been Addison) struggled to keep up with him. She jumped at shadows, yelped whenever they had the bad luck to bump into a few Hollow Men, and pulled at him constantly. It was very annoying. "I d-d-don't think we're going the right way…"

"Nonsense, my dear!" He said, falsely cheery, the Dark Seal tucked into his bags. "We are simply taking a shortcut! I've been this way countless times."

She did not protest the rest of the way, though she did look very unconvinced.

Eventually, they came to a very large stone door, which Reaver assured her was a cave that led directly to Oakfield. From there, they would be able to get to Bowerstone. Of course, he had no intention of going to Bowerstone.

But what Name-That-Begins-With-An-A didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Well, Reaver chuckled darkly to himself, that wasn't particularly true in this case.

They moved through the rank caverns, Reaver knew the way by heart now. For going through the place often left a deep impression upon one's sense of direction. Eventually, they reached the end. Two metal doors slammed behind them, and What's-Her-Name screeched, jumping, latching on to Reaver's arm.

The Shadow Judges stepped forward, like molten darkness, their eyes glittering like bits of ruby.

"R-Reaver?" The girl pulled frantically at him. "W-What's going on?"

"As you can see, oh lovely Judges, I've brought my sacrifice for this year." Reaver smirking.

"_This girl…?" _Said the one on the far left. _"Such a measly soul… a mere morsel compared to Oakvale…"_

The one of the far right was more reasonable, _"But a sacrifice… nonetheless…"_

Reaver pulled the Dark Seal from his pack and shoved it into the girl's hands. She was crying, sobbing now, her beautiful eyes rimmed with red.

"I would say sorry but," Reaver was watching her with nothing but contempt in his features. "I doubt you'd accept such a heartfelt apology like mine."

Her hair turned gray, and wrinkles overtook her pretty features. She became thicker around the middle, her knees turned knobbly. Where a young woman had once stood, an old hag had replaced.

The Judge in the center said, _"Begone… return next year, King of Thieves, or we will take… what is ours…"_

And they left, as quickly as they had come.

Reaver unhooked the Dragonstomper .48 from its holster and killed the old woman. And then left.

It had been a productive day, overall.

* * *

When Reaver returned, he found his First Mate, a reedy man who'd been the longest lasting crew member since he took Wicker's place, pacing in the sitting room.

"Well," Reaver said, voice lilting. "I do hope you're not planning on pacing a hole through the rugs. They cost a great deal, you know. Each fiber is worth more than your life."

The reedy man, whose name was, ironically enough, Reed, looked up. He was blind in one eye, which gave him a very eerie appearance, especially since that eye seemed to be covered in a fuzzy film.

"We found deh place you'd be'en lookin' fer." He said. Reed always spoke in a whisper. "Aurora. Got a map 'en everythin'."

* * *

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	21. Seaborne

Modus Vivendi

Part XXI: Seaborne

"_When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."_

* * *

It was a year ago when tales of Aurora had reached Reaver's ears. They'd called it the land of gold. Everything there was beautiful, they said. Pure. Untouched. The people laid in a hedonistic paradise, an epicurean wonderland filled with fruits that melted in your mouth, women and men that were far more hauntingly gorgeous than those of Albion. It was a place of true beauty.

Reaver wanted that. The place, to him, seemed rich for plunder, for pillage. It also seemed unreal, a tale to taunt sailors and pirates with something they could not have.

There was no perfect place. The destruction of Oakvale had proved that to him.

On his ship, _The Reaver, _the sea seemed to stretch around him endlessly, a deep, ethereal blue that would never change.

Around, his crew sang as they heaved their workload.

"_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree,_

_Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?"_

Reaver didn't believe in this epicurean wonderland. He wasn't sure he wanted to. It reminded him a great deal of Oakvale. Of the gold stalks of wheat, and the black ravens over Ariadne's home, of books with Oroboros on the cover. It reminded him of a young woman with long blonde hair and eyes like the sea around him.

_The Reaver _rocked back and forth. His hands were sweaty on the wheel of the ship, a casualty of the summer's sun above him. Reaver had considered steering the ship naked, but decided against the idea. He didn't need to give the crew another reason to be distracted.

"_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met up at midnight,_

_In the Hanging Tree."_

There were clouds in the sky, he noticed. A storm on the horizon. It seemed fitting, for him, for his mood. There were clouds in his emotions, too. He'd have Reed steer the ship when the time came, Avo knew it was the only thing the stupid little man was good for.

"_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree,_

_Where the dead man called out,_

_For his love to flee?"_

Reed had predicted that they would be upon Aurora on the morrow, and Reaver could already imagine how it would be. There would be a small desert-bound village for the taking, a place they could plunder and pillage.

Perhaps he could let it burn.

Nothing should have reminded him of Oakvale. Nothing deserved to remind him of Oakvale.

"_Strange things did happen there,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met up at midnight,_

_In the Hanging Tree."_

Sea-salt sprayed the sides of the ship, and the sea that reminded him so much of _her _eyes began to become unsettling. The waves were like great jagged rocks, the crew ran from mast to mast, their song a staccato of rising crescendo.

He could spot Reed from afar, helping three other men and one woman pull the rope, the sails rising to half-mast in a tumble of pale white. The white of bones.

"_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree,_

_Where I told you to run,_

_So we'd both be free?"_

It was beginning to rain. Reaver could feel it, the lightest touch of pressure against his cheeks, the chill that came with ocean rain. And then he heard it, the sky rolling and rumbling as though it had been cracked in two like a great egg.

He hated rain.

"_Strange things did happen here,_

_No stranger would it be,_

_If we met up at midnight,_

_In the Hanging Tree."_

Reaver stepped away from the wheel, and called Reed up to take over, and retreated to his cabins with a glass of fine wine.

The morrow would bring Aurora, he thought.

The morrow would bring sun.

"_Are you, are you,_

_Coming to the tree,_

_Wear a necklace of rope,_

_Side by side with me."_

He dreamed of Sibyl that night.

* * *

**I IS SORRY FOR CRAPPY CHAPTER AND LONG WAIT.**

**FORGIVE ME!11!1!**

**Anyway, I'm going through yet **_**another **_**fine bout of Writer's Block. (**_**damn you!) **_**And not to mention, school began again a couple of weeks ago. So… y'know. Tests. Homework. Teenager angst. Boyfriend issues. Blah, blah, blah.**

**BTW, the song featured in this chapter of MV is The Hanging Tree song in Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games. Not mine. I'm bad at songwriting. I like the song and it fits well with this depressive chapter.**

**So poo.**

**Feedback is appreciated.**


	22. Witch

_**So… uh… If I say we cool, we're cool right? D-:**_

Modus Vivendi

Part XXII: Witch

"_When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."_

* * *

"_There is a lady who lives in Shadelight. A witch. With long black hair and eyes like a desert cat's. If you are in search of treasure, pirate, you need only talk to her. She is the guardian. The guardian of our lives…"_

"_We look to her for guidance. The witch has lived there since my grandfather's father was alive. She came from across the sea, and proved her worth with magic. Beautiful… beautiful magic…"_

"_She never speaks of her name. We call her Akhdar Sihr. Green Witch, in your tongue…"_

Reaver liked gold. He especially liked it in large quantities. He also liked jewels, and the way they glimmered in the sun, and the colored shadows they made if you held them at just the right angle. The Aurorans, according to themselves, had no such things. And from the look of the huts and sandy pottery, and they appalling way they dressed themselves, Reaver was inclined to believe them.

No, according to _them, _this _Akhdar Sihr _had the gold. And the jewels. And the epicurean delights. So, after making short work of Reed, who had provided him with such _bloated, exaggerated _information, Reaver found himself on the way to Shadelight, humming a merry little tune to himself. He'd discarded his shirt long ago, leaving it trailing behind him in the desert sands. Besides, what woman, witch or no, would be able to resist a half-naked Reaver that walked into their home?

Well, he definitely wouldn't have been able to. _My _how the years had changed him.

Despite that, sweat pricked the back of his neck. Reaver took a long swig from his canteen of water. He had elected to go alone on this trip, leaving his crew to… _entertain _Aurora as he went to meet the merry witch of Shadelight.

Apparently, Shadelight was framed by a border of white marble, old ruins that hadn't quite been abandoned to decay. And, apparently, Shadelight was a cave. A very dank, very dark, very somber cave.

How _droll._

Reaver stood in front of it, the sun beating upon his bare back, his hair glued to the sides of his face by sweat, and looked up.

And there he saw it. A single, black raven. Like a piece of the night made whole, flapping its wings as it moved across the sky. The sight itself was so strange to him, so bizarre and he found himself completely enraptured by the beating of its wings… so enraptured, in fact, that he did not hear the slight whisper of feet across the ground, or the lightest swipe of cloth against skin.

In fact, he didn't even notice a thing until…

"I knew you would find me. One day." Said Ariadne.

The raven dived, and settled on her shoulder. Reaver stopped, and found his eyes widening, his body freezing as he took in the sight of Ariadne. She had changed, since their time in Oakvale. Her hair was no longer short, and boyish. No, now it was long, very long, down to her hips, ragged and messy, braided in strange places. Behind her ears, pinned behind her head, coiled around her shoulder.

But her eyes… her eyes were very much the same.

"_Eyes like a desert cat's."_

Wintergreen.

"_You." _Was all he could say.

"Come in." Was all she could say, leading him into the cave. Her voice was different, too. No longer was she soft-spoken, and quiet. Her voice held the strong determination of a woman incredibly confident in her abilities and powers.

It was the voice of a witch.

* * *

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	23. Guilt

Modus Vivendi

Part XXIII: Guilt

"_When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."_

* * *

_How many years had passed since they'd done this?_

His fingers unbuckled her clothing. Why did the Aurorans have so many _buckles and buttons? _Her eyes never left his. There was something in them. Something accusatory. Angry. Her fingers undid the laces of his pants.

_HOW MANY?_

The overtures of moans, the mingling scent of sweat and something spicier. The taste of desert. Pressed warmth on bare sheets, and her broken nails against his back.

_HOW MANY YEARS?_

Ariadne smelled of the desert. Of spices and _Oakvale._

"When?" He asked, spent beside her, breathing heavily.

"Since the first day I met you." She told him, grimly, face set in a rough expression. "And every day since."

"How…" His tone took on _that tone. _The tone he used for the stupid and uncultured. But Reaver stopped himself, fingers twitching. "How _maudlin."_

Ariadne smiled, found herself curled next to him. "Hopeless." She corrected. "Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless."

"And now?"

"I feel nothing." She whispered. Her voice was soft as shadow and dark as sin. "You killed Sibyl."

_That name. That __**name.**_

"Don't."

"_We killed __**Sibyl."**_

Her arms ended up pinned above her head. Reaver's eyes flashed dark and vicious. _Dangerous._

"_Your _fault." He hissed. "_Don't say that __**name!"**_

Ariadne laughed in his face. It was a low, horrible chuckle. The kind that belonged to banshees and not women from his past.

"I waited for you," She said, softly. Her breath smelled like barley, the kind turned gold in the sunlight. "In Oakvale. For months. Witnessed the plunging and pillaging of Oakvale to Wraithmarsh. Stood in ruin and desecration, wondering, waiting, _hoping and hating. _And. You. Never. Came."

"_No." _

She choked on her words, and finally, finally he could _see, _"I'm so tired."

_I'm not, _he wants to say, to laugh in her face and grin wolfishly. Instead he says, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." He rolls off of her and lays beside her, and they stare up at the blank ceilings. He can almost pretend that nothing has happened, that everything is alright, that he hasn't died and been reborn. She continues, "I want to die."

"I could help you."

"_Please," _She pleads, her hand atop his. They are soft, the buttery-smooth feel of old, old leather. "I don't want _them _to win."

He leaves her corpse out for the ravens, and watches as her body bakes beneath the desert. He sits in the barely-there shade and watches as the birds pluck and peel, and he doesn't do anything. Immortal, the Shadow Judges had told him.

_We are fallible, and fragile, and forgetful._

When there is nothing left but a hunk of meat, he returns to Aurora. It is desecrated, and pillaged, and human-shaped shadows flee at the sight of him.

He returns to Bloodstone, rich and wealthy in all but a single thing.

* * *

**Feedback is appreciated~!**


	24. Samsara

Modus Vivendi

Part XXIV: Samsara

"_When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."_

* * *

The years pass, the world changes, people die, people live and he stays the same.

Sometimes everything passes by in a blur, sometimes the world crawls especially slow.

In the end, he is alone, and he _does not care._

Reaver is dead. Not in life, no, never. He will never die, because he never wants to and because he _can not do so._

Who knows what Ariadne faces now? Perhaps, what he fears is not death, nor the matter of dying, but what comes after. What comes after is unknown.

The Shadow Judges scare him.

So life goes on, as it should, as it always has and always will.

And this is where Reaver's story ends, or begins, perhaps.

Maybe it doesn't begin with the finding of a book, maybe it doesn't begin with Ariadne and Sibyl, or with the destruction of Oakvale and the rise of the Pirate King?

Maybe it begins with Sparrow.

"_Well, hello there. Always a nice surprise to have company – I don't get many visitors to my coastal palace."_

Or is that a part of Sparrow's story? But it is where the truest part of his life begins. It is where he meets the woman who throws him a bone for the Industrial, and it is her daughter that becomes the greatest Queen that Albion has ever had, and her story, well _his and hers _story is one for a different time.

But for now, the curtain closes here.

This is his past, his story, it is one of different names and places than you may know, but it is his story.

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The End

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**Feedback is appreciated~!**


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